


The Zombie AU

by FantasticallyAwful



Category: UnsavoryHabits
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood, Cannibalism, Death, Gen, Gore, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:16:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2655065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasticallyAwful/pseuds/FantasticallyAwful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Zombie AU, that long awaited project I wasn't entirely sure I'd ever actually get done. Unfortunately, it was too long to post to Tumblr, so it'll go here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Zombie AU

**Author's Note:**

> Took me long enough eh? Well it's finally done, and I do hope you enjoy it!

Booker wasn't sure where they'd come from, and at this point in his survival, he'd stopped caring. The wind lashed at his face with cold, clawed hands. The chilled air nipped at his rosy cheeks, much like the walkers behind him would be if he couldn't escape their shambling hoard. Face flushed red from the cold and his running both, his skin felt like it was aflame. He skid to a stop, almost tumbling to the ground, tripping over his own feet in his clumsiness fueled by fear. He snatched a look behind him and with a loud curse continued running, desperate to escape.

It seemed to him that the whole city had been turned, gathered in this crowd of dead pursuing him. The smell of rotting meat was near sick enough to make Booker gag. If he had the time he might have even paused to vomit, but dare he stop now he'd be dead. The streets around him were littered with bodies not yet turned, most with head wounds, some little more then a leg or an arm. Blood lay in almost every corner, and Booker was determinded not to become one of those stains.

They growled and gurgled loud behind him, a hoard of them larger than many he'd seen so far. Their thirst for blood was never quenched, no matter how many lives they swallowed down their broken, rotting gullets. They had just taken his partner a mere moment ago and still they longed for more. The Captain's screams for mercy had been drowned out by the sound of tearing flesh and the grumbling of zombies, a sick kind of happiness twisting in Booker's gut as he recalled listening to him cry and beg for mercy.

He could have saved him if he'd tried, but if he was honest, he was glad to have him gone.

That man would have left him for dead soon enough anyway, the traitor making deals with the bandits of the woods, selling Booker off for those savages who would have torn into him just as the zombies might if he couldn't get out of this damn place. Cannibals they were, less like humans and more like animals. They would do anything to get fresh meat. Their sick cults had taken over the forests around the world, travailing in packs of eight to ten.

At least, that's what he heard from travelers he'd met in the past who had been lucky enough to escape them with their lives, which were few.

“ _They are ruthless murders!”_ , _“They'll tear your heart right outta your chest!”_ , _“They kill everything and anything they deem edible, even the dead.”._ Stories came and rumors traveled great distances as people met and parted ways. Facts were a tad scattered when it came to certain things, varying from person to person. The one fact everyone could agree on no matter who you met was that they were best to be avoided, lest you wish to die a painful, slow death.

To think, just a few days ago he'd thought he could trust the man who now wandered with the walkers, _The Captain,_ as he called himself, refusing to give his actual name. Why he had felt the need to hide himself so Booker could never figure. He couldn't have cared if the man was wanted for anything back before this time, when cops and robbers had been the most exciting game to be played out in the streets. The new trend these days was a game of run or die, and frankly Booker was done playing.

He'd found The Captain limping his way along the side of the highway with a broken rifle thrown over his back and some nasty wounds. Booker had almost passed him in his once working jeep, now a flaming pile of scrap thanks to some gasoline, a match and the treacherous motherfucker he'd once considered a friend. He had been foolish to aid him, to let pity get the best of him and stop to help him into the backseat of the car. He'd fed and sheltered him, stitched his gaping, pus filled wounds and nursed the filthy fuck back to health with what medical training he'd been able to recall from his days in the army. It'd looked like the man had been stabbed, and he now understood it was probably not just some random attack.

Someone had wanted him dead, and Booker could understand why.

He'd trusted him, put his faith and supplies in a man he thought he could partner with. He was strong, even more so than Booker even, and he was clever. Had a temper, was blunt with his words and often resorted to violence whether it was truly necessary or not, but he had definitely been worth keeping around. Strength and a violent nature was helpful to have around, long as it was kept under control. Yet, despite his hospitality, despite everything Booker had done for him, that fucking son of a bitch had gone and made a dangerous deal with The Dogs of the woods. That deal had cost the man his life, and nearly Booker's as well were he not to have overheard them.

The Captain had sold him to them, their blood hungry pack willing to offer him immortality from their wrath, even offered him a place in their _'family'_ , which he probably would have taken if he was still alive. How he'd talked them into making such a deal was beyond Booker comprehension, knowing The Dogs weren't normally much for deal making. Eat first, ask questions later seemed more their style.

Of course, he could have all that they offered, but only if he could find them something equally as valuable in return. Booker had watched from the bushes, having run to find him after hearing his yelling, but he wasn't dumb nor courageous enough to jump out and try to fight a battle with The Dogs. He was one against too many, and call him selfish but he would prefer to keep at least his life than lose both of theirs. He'd figured The Captain would laugh and tell them to fuck themselves like the bastard he was. He was a dead man, might as well die laughing. He'd never expected his next words, that desperate pleading only just saving the backstabbers ass.

“I got- I got a young man I can give ya! He's bulky, got a lot of meat on him, bet he'd feed y'all well. He's just back at camp, sleeping no doubt, you can take him easy. I'll show you to him if you let me go!” Booker could still barely believe it, even now. The very man he'd helped in his time of need selling him to forest mutts, like their partnership meant _nothing_ to him.

He'd nursed that fucker back to health when he was on the brink of death; poured all his time into keeping him alive when the infection had gripped him tight. When he was so close to falling into the dark, swimming in and out of death, Booker had risked his own life and wasted his medicines just to bring him back to the world of the living, and now all his work was for nothing. All his effort and all his time was for _fuck all_.

Everything he'd done for him, done for that no-good rotten traitor, it meant nothing to him if it was _his_ life that was on the line. Booker had done so much for him, and for what? To be sold to some pack of cannibals who would take him in the night, hold him down and tear the skin from his bones. He was bitter about it still, to say the least, and even now the memory made him grit his teeth.

Booker had watched them more then once, they'd hunted down one of his late companions and ripped her to pieces right in front of him, finding no care that he was there watching, breathless. Ripping the still beating hearts out of the opened chests of their victims, they lived for the sick squelch of intestines being torn from holes hand cleaved into still living, screaming humans. Savored the sobbing and begging, they loved to hear people plead for mercy. Crimson painted faces forever smirking, they licked at gushing wounds, scarlet blood dripping down their chins, soiling whatever clothing they had left, _if any_.

They had grown unabashed in their time living in the wild, and they lived nude if it suited them.

They were heartless, and despite his efforts, they'd just fought him away. Poor Mutatio, he'd had no time to mourn her loss before The Dogs had tried to turned on him too. They'd chased him out of the woods till they gave up and were left alone to eat what was left of her in peace.

Seemed not even the zombies trespassed into their territory. Scared of them perhaps, or rumors were true and The Dogs ate them too.

He'd heard them far too many times in the night when he risked the safety of no walkers to bother him for the danger of The Dogs. Night after night he would listen to them howl in delight when the prey was caught, shout and cry in victory. Shrill, cracking screams and hooting heard by one ear as triumph, by another the sound acting as a toll of death. They would celebrate their catch, but never long enough before they would feast. The gristly sounds heard by one too close to Dogs feeding were better left not described, for Booker sanity.

Maybe one day long ago when they were still fresh and new to their life and they had killed the ones they caught, or they'd eaten only animals. Maybe they'd been caring enough to make the deaths as quick and painless as they could. Maybe they'd vomited their first meal, so confused at why they would ever have wanted to kill a human for food when they had other options. Maybe they'd been people once. Now, they were nothing but beasts, _mutts_ , roaming the forests in search of lost travelers.

It was hard enough to deal with the dead that walked around the streets and now the world had cults in the forest who tossed all human decency down the drain and lived like the monsters did.

Booker was getting _sick_ and _tired_ of this damned chaotic world.

He was forced from his thoughts when a walker snapped at his arms, his flinch nearly throwing the shotgun he held tight to his chest to the ground. He looked up and found himself face to face with one of many rotting corpses, the creature making a sort of strained gurgling noise from the large hole torn in its throat before raising its one remaining arm in an attempt to grab him and take a chunk out of his shoulder. It reached, and Booker felt the bubble of panic in his chest.

“ _Fuck!”_ Booker cursed loudly, smashing the handle of his weapon between the thing's eyes, knocking it far enough back he could scrambled out of it's way and take off down the street again. He'd almost forgotten, he was sort of being chased by a mob of these brainless, flesh eaters.

He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, huffing and puffing and out of breath. He could feel an ache building in his chest, slowly but surely spreading to his sides and shoulders. A stitch was growing in just above his hip, and he was near to wincing at the intensity of it. His mouth was sticky with phlegm, making it harder and harder to breath, but he couldn't afford to stop now. His muscles burned but he couldn't risk a rest. His heart beat in his ears, the soft thud of his own life ringing around his head, the last thing he had that kept him going.

 _'Keep running, keep running, keep running,'_ chanted in his head in time with his racing heart, the voice's tone urgent, and he more than willingly followed it's order. He could hear them behind him and he skidded to another stop and turned the corner, racing down an alleyway he hoped would save him. It was thin and the walls closed around him, making him feel claustrophobic. Tall, abandoned buildings seemed to loom around him, watching with unseen eyes, mocking him. They were laughing at the pathetic human, giving a futile effort to escape. One could not truly escape death, not here.

He was slowing, whether he wanted to or not, running never really being his forte. They were groaning and moaning and getting louder as they got closer and ever so _closer_. Beginning to panic, he reached into his pocket and found nothing to his name but lint and what looked to be an old gum wrapper. His ammo was long used up when he'd fended off the cannibals that had attempted to drag him from his bed to his grave in their forest.

Upon hearing the news of The Captain's betrayal he'd hoped to run back and collect what he could from their camp before running away from the both. They'd managed to scrounge up a good camp the few weeks they'd been together, and he'd be damned if he were to lose all that after so much work. Food, water and other comforts would have been great to have kept if he had managed to pull it all down in time. Unfortunately, the dogs moved faster then he recalled from his forest days.

He knew he shouldn't have wasted what little ammo he had left on those freaks; the noise had done nothing for him but draw zombies. Sure, the walking dead had been enough to scare off The Dogs, who had fled into the safety of the trees, but it'd left him as much of a dead man as he had been with forest people biting at his ankles before. He supposed neither death wouldn't have been better than the other, the cannibals being near just as bad as the zombies. Whoever was to take him, he's have suffered the same fate. It felt as if he were destine to be eaten perhaps.

He cursed again, words desperately spat out as they began to draw in close, _far_ too close. They reeked of gore, the smell making his eyes water and his head spin, his headache thumping just that little worse than before they'd been so near. Somehow the dead managed to smell even worse than they normally did when they walked, probably from wandering in the sun for so long. He could tell that it wouldn't be long before he joined them, growling and wandering in search of food he didn't need, his skin rotting off his bones.

He felt thin, bony fingers grasp at his shoulder and he realized then that he was finished. He was done with running. He was tired, so _very_ tired; so done with living if this is how living would be like. It was over, and he reluctantly began to slow, shutting his eyes and waiting for the bite to seal his fate. The sting of teeth sinking into his body forcing him to join them. Oh how cruel fate was. He'd come far, running from these monsters for miles yet only to become one. Hopefully they'd bite through something lethal, make this quick. He didn't want to suffer too long.

Gun shots were fired to his right, the zombie's attention drawn away from him for a moment that felt like an age. The sound rang and echoed in the tight back-alley like a church bell, clanging around tight built walls. Time felt like it had frozen, the creatures once crawling closer and closer now stopped to listen, to wait for more prey to satisfy their forever growing hunger. He could hear shouting and it sounded not far from where he stood, nor did it sound like the shouting of zombies. He wondered to himself if this would be his savior or another danger to deal with.

His eyes shot back open when a someone grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him suddenly sideways, almost tripping him as they roughly tugged him into a small section of clear space cut into the side of the hoard. Booker was slightly overwhelmed by the action, dragged down the closing path these people had cleared in the waves of zombies. He could hear them growling, rough frustrated sounds so violently snarled he could practically feel their anger of losing a meal radiating from them. Broken fingers reached out to grab him, only just missing as he was dragged out of their reach.

From what he'd observed, there were two of them. There was a smaller, shakier young man running along side him, and then the one who held Booker's wrist, pulling him from his hell. He could only just comprehend what was happening when he was thrown into the backseat of a truck and they all took off to the purr of a working engine, running over dead as they sped out of the city, leaving the hoard far behind them. Booker missed having a vehicle, he loved the sound of walkers disappearing in the distance.

He groaned and paused to gain his bearings, giving his surrounds a once-over. Thrown onto beige apostrophe, it was dull and worn from use. Age had taken its toll on the pickup, inside and out. The car smelled something of dried blood, a stronger scent of cheap air freshener only doing so well to mask it. Booker couldn't overlook the faded, rusty stain on the backrest of the right seat and tilted his head in curiosity. It was not fresh but noticeable all the same, making Booker wary of what these people had in mind for him.

The two who had saved him sat in the front seats, mumbling and yelling things Booker couldn't yet understand, his ears still ringing with the sound of undead snarling. He shook his head in an effort to clear the buzzing sound from his ears, mostly succeeding. The blurred, foggy noises around him became more prominent as he recovered and he groaned softly.

Booker hadn't thought much of the two who had saved him and, still recovering from his second near death experience that day while they spoke to each other. Their voices were kept, or were tried and failing to be kept, fairly hushed. He could only just make out what they were saying from the front seats and he perked up slightly when he heard mention of himself.

“Thatcher, if that stranger you made me risk my life for is bitten I swear to Alta Dio himself that I'm going to shove this gun so far up your ass you'll be coughing up bullets for days!” The driver cried, waving about a handgun before shoving it between the seat and the armrest sat in the middle of the two men. He was clearly shaken and beyond annoyed with his partner, Booker noting the second man to be named _Thatcher_. The driver's hands were shaking, his grip on the wheel tight enough to have his knuckles turning white.

Thatcher scowled at him, his expression one of irritation. He tossed his own gun into the glove compartment and shut it a little harder than necessary, which prompted the driver to shoot him an angry glare. He returned the look and paused, mouth open to say some remark in return only to promptly shut it. He shook his head and sighed, crossing his arms.

“Well I'm sorry, but we couldn't just leave him back there! You know how I feel about leaving people behind,” Thatcher mumbled, trailing off. His eyes fell into his lap and he pouted, slouching in his seat. The driver gave him another look and his face softened at his partners expression. He muttered what sounded like a begrudging apology and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, as if the words had brought him some physical twinge of pain. Thatcher looked up and returned a soft smile, accepting it.

“Look behind you, see if our new friend is dead or not. I need to know if I'm pulling over to dump this body or not.” Booker shifted in his seat and looked up to find the man, Thatcher, staring back at him with wide, curious eyes. They were blue, crystal blue, reminded him of the ocean. He was fairly pasty, the black scruff of what seemed an attempted beard a little too prominent against its backdrop of white. He gave Booker a bright smile and a short wave before turning back to his friend with an air of pride.

“He's awake, not bitten, not dead. Looks fairly healthy and strong too!” Thatcher reported, his smile yet to waver. The driver scoffed, sighing.

“That's great, but whether we can trust this man is the real question. Everything is all fine and dandy until this guy slits our throats in our sleep.” The driver grumbled, visibly tensing. Booker wondered to himself if he'd been betrayed before; with the way he was acting it was that, or he was just a regular, old hardass. Thatcher frowned and lightly punched the driver in the shoulder, grumbling something to him. The gesture the driver took as playful, a small smile appearing only to just as quickly fade away.

The rest of the ride was silent, save for the occasional muffled groan of a zombie being passed. Booker lay quietly in the back and was left to his thoughts, his companions mostly ignoring him. Sometimes Thatcher would glance back at him over his shoulder to make sure he was still breathing, but that was the most attention he got. Booker would nod to him, maybe give a smile, and Thatcher would go back to watching the road.

He was wary of these two. They seemed well stocked from the looks of things, and friendly enough, but anyone could turn on you in times like these. Hell, he'd thought The Captain had seemed friendly enough, and look where that had gotten him.

Thatcher, if not either of them, seemed like a good man. He was scrawny and lacking in physical strength but he seemed to make up for it with his high spirits and compassion. He was kind, generous, and would make a fair ally as long as he wasn't a completely hopeless shot. His downside would be his trust, his need to aid those he found in trouble and the fact he would need constant supervision and protection. Ignoring his flaws, Booker wouldn't mind having him around.

His friend, the driver who Booker had not yet managed to catch the name of, was what worried him most.

He seemed strong and was someone who could handle himself alone if he well wished. He was also cold, much less empathetic and not very willing to take in the lost as Thatcher was. From what Booker could tell, he seemed a _only-the-strong-survive_ type of person. And yet here he was sitting next to a man like Thatcher, who probably wouldn't have made it two feet out the door without his partner. Their past was something he would want to delve into if these men took him under their wing, which he would be grateful for.

The ride to whether they were headed felt much longer once the silence had settled in, and it almost startled Booker when they stopped in front of a run down apartment building and the engine cut. Near to nodding off against the gentle hum of the engine and the quiet sound of road beneath them, he grunted softly and glanced upwards.

“We're here.” Said the driver softly, unbuckling his seat belt and hoping out of the car, Thatcher quick to follow him after inviting Booker inside.

The building was not big, maybe two floors at the most. Its red brick walls were littered with wooden boards that had been put up over every window, no matter the height. The scars of gun shots covered the front entrance and Booker questioned how they'd managed to get such a nice hideout. It looked worn down, its colors maybe once bright now faded and dull, but what didn't look like this these days. It was sturdy, he knew that much; after all, it had lasted this long. Thatcher called to him as he daydreamed and he raced inside at the mention of food and water. He hadn't realized how hungry he had been until the offer had been made.

The inside of the building was no nicer than the outside if not far, _far_ worse. It'd been clear that Thatcher and Driver (as Booker was calling him for now) had probably tried to clean up best they could, yet still the whole place was a disastrous mess.

Furniture had somehow gotten from the rooms upstairs down into what seemed to be the lobby and were strewn about the floor either on their side or in pieces. Papers that had once sat behind the reception desk were tossed about the room and covered most of the floor. The two currently living here had cleared a spot in the middle of the floor and had probably cleared the stairs as well, from the look of things.

Two slightly dirty and patched-up sleeping bags sat upon the ground along with the renominates of a fire. They'd been burning the furniture, a too round hole to be unintentional leading to the second floor was cut over the fire pit to keep the smoke from choking the inhabitants out of the main room.

Thatcher had begun to explain that most of the supplies was kept in the rooms above until Driver smacked him hard over the head with a wooden spoon he was using to make what looked like soup, the pot set upon a red propane stove, a small dent on the lid. He gave him a warning about revealing information to strangers and with a quick glare aimed at Booker went back to his cooking. Thatcher was quick to quiet and Booker didn't expect much information from either of them until Driver relaxed.

He wouldn't say he wasn't annoyed by how Driver was acting around him, but he didn't blame him. He'd been through betrayal himself, he knew how hard it was to forgive and how much harder it was to forget.

Thatcher sat Booker down at a round wooden table they'd righted from the ground, two chairs sat at either side of it. Thatcher quickly found another that was still intact and offered Booker a seat.

“So, stranger, what name can I call you by?” Thatcher asked as he took a seat to Booker's right, propping his head up with a fist under his chin.

“Name's Booker, and you two?”

“I'm Thatcher, and my partner is Cabot. Nice to meet you, Booker.” Cabot made a nervous grumble at the mention of his name and turned to shoot Thatcher a nasty glare. Thatcher swallowed nervously and turned back to Booker, shrugging with a grimace.

“Sorry about him, we've had some bad experiences with strangers in the past and Cabot's just nervous is all. Don't take what he says to heart.” Thatcher said, watching Cabot from the corner of his eye. Booker nodded, seeing no need to comment. He wasn't in any position to ask. Instead, Thatcher began talking about how he and Cabot had stumbled on this base of theirs which Booker listened to with genuine interest.

They'd been forced from the home in the suburbs, which they had shared, by the walkers and the panic both, and had hopped into Cabot's work truck and driven for what had felt like ages. They had planned to keep driving until they realized they really needed more supplies and couldn't live out of the car. As nice as it was, it wasn't a home. After a run in with some less than kind robbers (who seemed to have been the start of Cabot's trust issues) and some zombies, they'd been forced back on the road for a couple days until they ran out of gas. They'd been lucky enough to land themselves in front of the apartment building and has taken it for themselves seeing as no one else had.

Booker questioned the part about it being empty before but didn't see it fit to interrupt.

They'd been siphoning gas out the surrounding vehicles for days now and were collecting their things for another move since staying in one place wasn't really safe in these times. Booker could understand that, living by that same rule himself. Holing up in one place was fine until someone, or something, found you out. The moment you were turned into a target, you were nothing but a sitting duck. Settling down was something only large groups could get away with, anyone else was only risking their lives.

“There’s a city just up ahead of here and we're hoping to meet up with some friends we contacted shortly after the panic spread, before my cellphone died.” Thatcher explained, smiling up at Cabot when he placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of him, sitting down with another in hand for himself. Booker was sure he was in heaven when the smell of fresh food wafted up to his nose, finally a scent that wasn't rotting human matter. He waited patiently as he could for Cabot to get up and return with his meal and frowned when he made no notion to go and do such a task, already eating.

Booker watch him sip at warm broth a while longer before he decided to stand and get his own. He began to rise from his seat until Cabot spoke, stopping him.

“Sit down. I need to know I can trust you before I start handing out anything to you,” Cabot narrowed his eyes as he considered Booker, deep in thought. Thatcher tried to speak up when Cabot shushed him with a raised finger. The younger man slumped in his seat, shifting uncertainly but kept quiet as he was ordered, glancing over at Booker.

“You're going to do me a favor; I left a box of food outside, enough to sustain a man for a good week or so if he was smart. You're going to go grab that for me and bring it here. Or, of course, you can take it for yourself and get the fuck out of here, your choice.” Cabot, with the way he said it and the way he was acting, seemed quite sure Booker was going to run off with what he could take and leave. He seemed to _want_ him to. If Booker was being honest, he probably would have if he didn't want to prove Cabot wrong. He could leave, find his own life somewhere away from here, but he just wanted to spite the man now. He wanted to show him that he was wrong about him and who he was.

He stood rather roughly from his seat and with a last narrow eyed glare towards the untrustful man, walked outside.

The wind was instantly whipping at his face, dry leaves whirling around him. Autumn, and soon to be winter. A deadly time would be upon them far quicker than Booker would enjoy. When it got cold, it not only be zombies, food and water they'd have to worry about. One would have to keep warm, and what with everything on a persons plate already, another something to look after certainly didn't make life any better.

He looked around the road, clear of any walkers or living beings, safe enough for him to be out. The box lay out in the open and is was painfully obvious Cabot had placed it outside just for Booker to find, probably during his talk with Thatcher. It wasn't the best method of testing one's trust, but Booker wasn't complaining. If all he had to do to get that asshole to feed him was to bring in some box, he could deal with that.

With some difficulty, his hands full, Booker managed to pull the door open and march inside, quite proudly if he did say so himself. He dropped the box onto the floor in front of the table and smiled down at his two seated friends, smug and all too happy with himself.

“I got your box. Can I eat yet?” Booker asked, putting his hands to his hips, raising a brow. Cabot seemed unhappy, but stood and brought him his food nonetheless, doing as he'd promised. Words could not express Booker's joy when he found himself presented with a bowl of something warm for once in what felt like a lifetime. No cold, canned shit for him any longer. Cabot's look of disappointment made it all just that much sweeter, the true icing on the cake.

They mostly ate in silence, Thatcher occasionally trying to strike up a conversation, unnerved by the silence. Cabot was quick to shut down his attempts, clearly not in the mood for friendly chatter. Not with someone like _Booker_ anyways.

So far, Booker didn't like him. The cold man to his left was a danger to him and his current shelter. He had mostly accepted him into his and Thatcher's group, but he wasn't happy about it, Booker could tell that much. As easy as he'd let him in he could kick him out just as fast. Of all the things Booker didn't need, it was Cabot leaving him out in the dead filled streets. He needed to get on his good side and fast if he was to keep his place in their group.

Once they'd finished eating, Thatcher was the one to collect the dishes and was quick to get away from the two other men, obviously agitated by the tension between Cabot and Booker.

“So, we still need some gas for the truck, and supplies is always worth collecting. So what if Booker went with you tomorrow, Cabot? He's a lot stronger than I am, and probably better with a gun too. I think you should take him.” Thatcher suggested with as cheery a smile as he could muster, his tone equally merry. Cabot and Booker were both about to voice their protest when Thatcher raised a hand, silencing them, expression turned hard. Less of a suggestion and more of an order it seemed.

It was settled then without much vote, they would go hunting for supplies tomorrow, _together_. Thatcher tried to tell Booker, since he looked a little too unhappy, that it would be like a team building exercise, maybe help Cabot warm up to him. He then walked over to Cabot and whispered something to the man that had been enough to make him blush and push a laughing Thatcher away with a roll of his eyes and a smirk.

Booker raised a brow at the two, but quickly averted his gaze when Thatcher leaned back and pressed a soft kiss to Cabot's lips, which the other happily returned. Wrapping his arms around Thatcher's neck he dragged him down into his lap and started to run a hand up the back of his shirt. The younger man squeaked but didn't push away, sinking contently into Cabot's grip, coming to sit straddled up against his waist.

Booker now understood why the two unlikely partners were together and it surprised him he hadn't noticed till now. They were married, or at least in a relationship he told himself as he noticed the lack of rings. Cabot took notice of Booker's reaction and pulled away from Thatcher, shooting him an unfriendly glare, scowling.

“What? You have a problem with us, Stranger?” Cabot growled, despite Thatcher nudging him, urging him to calm before a fight broke out. Booker would have snarled back were it not for the look of worry Thatcher was giving him, forcing him to hold back his growing rage. Another time, he promised himself.

“Its _Booker,_ thank you,” He started, hissing his words through clenched teeth. “And no, I have nothing against your relationship. Quite like men myself _thanks._ ” His hands which had twisted into fists relaxed and he leaned back in his seat, trying to seem less aggressive. Cabot grunted in what was hopefully approval and returned his attention back to Thatcher, whispering something up to him.

Booker allowed a smile when Thatcher's eyes grew wide, a blush spreading across his cheeks that had red crawling up his ears. He burrowed his face into the crook of Cabot's neck and cursed his name, muttering into his shirt something about behaving when they were in front of guests. Cabot, quite proud of himself from his look, gently pried his flustered lover off of him, standing and stretching his back all the while Thatcher mumbled incoherently to himself.

“Right, new guy, if you're scavenging with me tomorrow then you better be prepared to get up early. I get up at the break of dawn while the walkers are still docile and I expect you to do the same,” Cabot pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the table. Thatcher made a strained noise of surprise and chastised him for it while Cabot shrugged to him in response, seeing no wrong with his partial nudity.

“Even with Thatcher pestering me to bring you, if you aren't up when I need you to be then I _will_ leave you behind. Now get some sleep, God knows we all need it.” Cabot stretched and no later then that wriggled into his sleeping bag and shut his eyes, clear that he wanted his rest. It was only then that Booker noticed how tired the man looked, bags heavy under his eyes, leaving him to wonder how many nights he'd gone without sleep. He wouldn't be surprised if the man was left sleepless. It was a wonder anyone could sleep in this hellish world.

Thatcher looked towards Booker than at his own sleeping bag, humming in concern.

“We only have two sleeping bags right now, but feel free to take mine.” He offered, looking over at Cabot in a silent question. About to deny, not wanted to really invade the lovers lives, also knowing Cabot would probably approve, Booker didn't have a chance to say anything before Thatcher was crawling into Cabot's, nuzzling into his bare back. He rolled his eyes at the two and gratefully crawled into the warmth of the orange bag.

It had been a long time since he'd had anything this close to a bed since the outbreak had started and _oh_ how he had he missed this. There was a cold breeze coming from underneath the door, he could hear the groaning of zombies wandering the streets and the floor wasn't exactly a mattress, but this was the nicest home he could ever wish for.

He dozed off quick, reminding himself to wake up early, as if that would actually force his body to awake when it needed to.

-=+=-

A pillow was thrown at Booker's head and he woke with a startled snort, reaching for a weapon that once sat at the edge of wherever he slept, unable to find himself anything but a bit of fluff that had fallen from a rip in the sleeping bag. He'd almost forgotten; new home, new friends, no danger, _safe_.

He shoved the grossly stained pillow off his face with a grimace and was greeted by Cabot, staring down at him with a smirk. He was still shirtless and the sleep was not yet rubbed from his half-lidded eyes, which left Booker guessing he'd just woken. He gave Booker a toothy smile, snorting and trying muffling his laughter best he could.

He cleared his throat and was quick to calm, shaking his head in spite of himself, almost like he regretted the action. Less so out of guilt of waking Booker, simply just because it was childish of him to do. “Wake up, Sleeping beauty, we have to get going sooner rather than later. Get dressed if you must and let's go.” Cabot whispered as loud as he dared, gesturing for Booker to stand with a wave of his hand.

“Why the hell are you whisp-?” Booker's questioned, only to be interrupted when Cabot turned to lunge at him and force a hand hard around his mouth, glaring at him with a look that could kill a walker. A hand flew to push him away but Cabot was quicker than he expected for a man his age. Booker, with an angry sound rumbling in his throat, allowed himself to be silenced.

“ _Shut-up!_ Stay quiet, Thatcher is still sleeping and I don't want to wake him,” Cabot hissed, pushing his face uncomfortably close to Booker's, their foreheads too close to touching. He huffed under Cabot's hand but nodded, despite wanting to bite the man. Cabot, almost reluctantly so, released his mouth and Booker rubbed at his lips, disgusted by the amount of sweat he had felt on Cabot's palm. His seemingly nervous companion had wandered off to find his shirt with a grumble of discontent, ignoring Booker's sound of revolt.

He didn't seem the type to be nervous, but with the way he looked at Thatcher, still sleeping soundly, Booker easily guessed what worried him. Why he had to be so worried when his lover was safe from harm puzzled him but he chose not to question him. There was no point asking things that didn't concern him. For all Booker knew, Thatcher was sick and dying, and that was something he'd rather not hear about were it to be true.

Booker glanced over at Thatcher and couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips at the sight of the younger man. He was wrapped up in the sleeping-bag, facing Booker, face calm and crowded by the too bright neon-orange of the bag. He could make out his chest heaving softly with his every breath, his black hair in a bushy mess behind him when it wasn't tied back in a ponytail as it had been yesterday. Even with all the chaos happening around them, Thatcher, in his sleep at the very least, made it seem like they were somewhere death was not, so calm and innocent he was.

The feeling of cold metal brought his attention back to Cabot, who he found pressing the side of a handgun against his cheek. Booker near shouted in a mix of fear and surprise, flinching away from the weapon. The barrel might not have been pressed to his temple at it had been times before, but lost in his thoughts he'd been taken off guard. It was a becoming less than a rare occurrence, and Booker would admit it happened more often then he would prefer. Cabot rolled his eyes and handed it to him, scoffing.

“Trust me, I'm not going to shoot you anytime soon, no need to be so on edge. Even if I wanted to, I doubt Thatcher would approve.” Cabot said with a smirk, pointing a thumb back over at the sleeping figure of his lover. Booker flipped him off but accepted the weapon nonetheless, grumbling some rude remark about his new partner under his breath. Cabot grunted and returned the vulgar gesture with a dramatic sneer.

“Come on, Baker. We've got stuff to find.” Cabot said, taking an ice pick from behind the reception desk and shifting under the weight of a backpack he'd picked up from somewhere and thrown over his shoulder. Booker gave him an affirmative nod, following him to the door. Cabot opened the door and with an overly fancy wave of his hand and a bow, gestured for Booker to go before him. Booker gave him a snort and with a roll of his eyes walked out into the chill of Autumn wind, Cabot never not far behind.

The air was clear and smelled of an oncoming winter, fresh and sharp. Birds tweeted in the leaf less branches of trees just beginning to overgrow their concrete confinements, their roots breaking already weak stone. If car wreaks and dried blood didn't cover the streets, Booker would have almost forgotten the apocalypse was upon them. It was calm, _quiet and ominous_ , but calm. He took a moment to appreciate the scenery, overlooking the mangled, chewed upon bodies poking out from the windows of some broken vehicle, knowing he wouldn't get much chance to do such things in the future.

“It's _Booker_ , by the way.” He muttered, looking over at the man who had made his way to stand beside him, checking over the streets with an ever watchful eye. He squinted into the morning sunrise on the horizon, shielding his eyes with his hand, nodding in approval. Clear morning, both weather and walker wise; lucky.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Bucket. Coast looks clear, follow me, there is a pharmacy I've been clearing out just down this way, figured we could take whatever was left there and then check some of the surround cars in that area.” Booker scowled at the nickname game Cabot was playing and begrudgingly trailed not far behind him, weapon gripped tight in his hand. He would have corrected him again, but he could see the taunt that Cabot was trying for and refused to fall for it.

The apartment was close to many old looking shops that sat just around the corner, many of them not actually that aged. Worn down or destroyed entirely by the initial panic of the apocalypse, they were some few reminders of life before the outbreak. The base being on he edge of what must have once been a busy road, it was lined with a multitude of small stores and cafes, once run by probably friendly folks. Looking around the area Booker could make out the faded, ripped canvas signs of places that had once been bustling with business. Cracked sidewalks once filled with people passing each other by without a care in the world, smiles exchanged as friends met in the bustling streets.

Booker could still hear the laughter, the faint echo of happiness that still whistled in the air like the ghost of a long lost era. Even though it hadn't been all that long since everything had gone to hell, it felt like ages upon lifetimes since the world had been normal. It was almost becoming hard to imagine a place where people didn't fear the dead, and silence didn't seem so frightening.

It was deathly quiet, making the sound of his boots sound like thunder, making him paranoid. He was expecting something to jump out at him, for Cabot to turn on him, for _something_ to happen. The quiet might have been relaxing once, now it meant only oncoming danger.

Like God had heard him and wished to spit in his face, Cabot stopped suddenly, hastily ducking behind some broken, dented mail-boxes. One of them had been torn open and letters were strewn across the road, stained by past rainfalls and never to see their receiver. He would have knelt down to pick one up if it hadn't been for Cabot trying to usher him to hid along with him, which Booker stubbornly refused, not seeing any danger himself and convinced that Cabot was, as he'd predicted, just a crazy old man. In short, Booker was being a dick.

Booker raised an eyebrow at him, unsure of why he was reacting in such a way. He didn't have time to ask before Cabot growled and reached out to him. He took hold of the front of Booker's coat, dragging him to sit next to him. Shouting in surprise, Booker nearly decided then and there to shoot Cabot while he had the chance. His hand stumbled for his gun and he flushed when it was snatched out of his hand, Cabot shushing him with a finger forcefully pressed against his lips.

“For fucks sake, is it impossible for you to be _quiet_?” His voice was an octave higher than Booker was used to and it made the way he hissed _'quiet'_ seem like a hiccup in his words. “There are some people up ahead, not sure if they're friendly. We need to approach slowly and cautiously, try not to spook them. I need to be able to return to Thatcher.” Cabot paused, pondering silently to himself. Booker pried the hand off his mouth and growled but nodded in agreement; he also wanted to be able to head home, preferably with Cabot walking next to him.

As much as he disliked the asshole, he didn't want to have to start taking care of Thatcher like Cabot did now; mainly because he knew he couldn't. He liked Thatcher, but he had since learned that he would be a man he would have to leave behind if the time ever arouse. Cabot looked down at the gun in his hands then back up at what they hoped were humans, deep in thought. He shook his head, and Booker was glad to find him slipping the weapon into his belt, knowing well what thought had crossed his mind.

“Okay, let's go.”

They stood and with a quick nod to confirm their agreement, slowly started to make their way over to the two, palms raised in reassurance when the one standing gave notice to their approach. The person, as they now discovered much to both their reliefs, glanced at them from the corner of his eye before spinning around to face them. His ashen eyes grew wide watching them approach, filled with a sudden anxiety. The color drained from his face and he raised his crimson stained baseball bat in front of him, pointing it at Booker and Cabot threateningly. He flicked his head to the side, trying to shake a stray strand of chestnut hair from his face, only to have more fall into his eyes. He looked mad and wild, but too fearful to be a real threat.

“Who-who are you?” He finally managed to stammer, sweat glistening on his brow as he began to quiver violently. His partner, knelt in the rubble of what once looked like a convenience store, weakly grabbed at his pant leg. He tugged at it lightly, drawing his attention down to him. The man gave him little but a flick of his eye before he gently tried to shake him away, looking almost off balance as he shook out his leg till the man let go.

The one on the ground was an older fellow, and in much worse condition than his partner. His skin was graying and looked to be rotting, pulled far too tight on his bones. His eyes were unfocused, clear he was having a difficult time keeping them from straying and the white was turned a sick, yellow color. He smelt like mold and death and Booker cursed softly to himself when he caught sigh of the bite mark in his shoulder.

The wound was bleeding still, but looked anything but fresh. A cream colored substance was mixed in with the red running down his collar and the wound was puffy, inflamed and looked agonizing. The man winced when he pulled at his partners leg again, a little harder than his last attempt. His partner finally looked down and the older shook his head. The younger man, with great hesitation, dropped the weapon and let it slip from his hand to the ground, giving himself up to Booker and Cabot.

“Name's Cabot, and this is Booker. We've got a base not far from here, maybe we could help you folks out?” Cabot offered, giving the strangers a friendly smile. The younger one gave a whimper, but visibly relaxed; he seemed relived, but still something was making him anxious. Booker would have overlooked it, knowing how nerve wracking it would be to have random folks come up to you in a place like this, but something told him it wasn't them two making this man fidgety. He pulled at his sleeves and looked down at his friend, who nodded and did his best to give a smile. It looked more pained that reassuring, and Booker felt pity well in his chest.

The man on the ground turned his attention to Cabot, giving him a sorrowful glance before coughing. Ragged, shallow hacks worked their way up his throat, making it sound like he was choking on his own breath. He covered his mouth and desperately sucked in a breath, his coughing intensifying enough Booker worried he might spit up his own heart.

Cabot had begun to try and get close when the man suddenly vomited into his hand, being unfed he had little coming up. Bile and blood seeping through his frail, shaking fingers, the substance pooling on the floor as it dripped grossly from his slightly parted lips. He fell onto his hands and knees and hacked up more of the putrid, sticky froth into his hand, his companion turning away, looking like he was about to be sick himself.

Cabot cautiously made his way over the older of the two, kneeling down in the rubble, rubbing his back in an attempt to soothe his pain. He looked over the older fellow, grunting after a quick moment of inspection.

“Bitten, nothing I can do for him besides put a bullet in his brain, end his hurting. You on the other hand, I might be able to help. What's your name, stranger?” Cabot asked, voice solemn when speaking about the older of the two, brighter when he addressed the one still standing.

“R-Rigel, and that’s Praecantatio.” The younger man said softly, watching his friend with sadness.

Booker moved to stand next to him and put a firm hand on his shoulder, feeling him flinch and then relax under his grip. Rigel looked back at him and Booker could feel the pain that seeped through his skin, the sorrow so heavy in his eyes.

Watching your partner and or friend die was never an easy task, but it seemed to take a harsher toll on Rigel than it did other men for one reason or another. Or maybe Booker had just seen it happen enough times he was was used to it by now. Sad truth was it was probably the latter.

Cabot stood and with a heavy sigh, pulled the gun from his belt. He held in up in front of him and was prepared to fire, but froze and hesitated. His finger quivered on the trigger and he licked nervously at his lips, his breathing uneven and shallow. Praecantatio coughed again, slow, breathless hacking, forcing Cabot to send down whatever it was that was aggravating him and put the poor fellow out of his misery.

This was something Booker didn't expect Cabot to find difficult, especially when the man was dead already. His reactions clearly showed he was in distress, as well as he tried to hide it, and Booker found it odd. Perhaps Cabot wasn't the cold hearted bastard Booker took him to be.

Rigel shut his eyes and looked away with a whimper. The shot was fired and the sound echoed in the empty streets like some deathly omen of a ruthless future that awaited them all, a shiver running down Booker's spine. Rigel unexpectedly turned and wrapped himself around Booker, burrowing his face into his chest. Booker flinched and stumbled a step back, arms outstretched awkwardly, Rigel hiding himself in his coat.

He looked up at Cabot in a silent question, the man turning away from the limp body on the floor. He looked grim, but when he caught sight of the two he relaxed, as if reassured that who he had killed was not the last of those still with beating hearts. He rolled his eyes at Booker's confusion and hugged his arms around himself, motioning for Booker to do the same.

Booker looked up and Cabot, then down at Rigel, reluctantly and carefully put his arms around the shaking man in an uncomfortable hug, grimacing in discomfort. Of all the things he wasn't used to, comforting another was probably the one which he was the most awkward with.

“Come on, you must be hungry. It's just a short walk to the base, we don't want to be around when the walkers get here.” Cabot said, putting a hand on Rigel's shoulder. While his statement about the walkers had been true, he'd mentioned leaving mostly to aid his poor partner, who was obviously not very comfortable comforting others. Rigel pulled away from Booker, stifling a whimper, quietly mumbling an apology which Booker accepted with a nod.

The walk home felt slower than the walk there, the three of them weighed down by the events of the morning. The grumble and gurgle of zombies sounded from behind them and Booker shuddered, a feeling of dread washing over him at the image of that man torn to shreds. He could see his blood glisten on broken teeth, painting hands and bodies in a crimson shine. From his thoughts alone, he could tell it was going to be a very long day.

-=+=-

Walking through the apartment doors, they found Thatcher sitting at the table, almost dropping the yellow-paged book he was reading. Titled _Lord of The Flies,_ Booker wondered silently to himself where they had picked up such a thing. Books had been normally burned for warmth or just burned in general, lost in the panic of the beginning of the end or too blood stained to be readable any longer. Such a sight was rare, and thinking about it's previous whereabouts took Booker's mind off the death.

“Cabot? Booker? What are you doing back so early?” Thatcher asked in surprised, almost worried tone, standing to greet them. The sight of the newcomer made his eyes go wide and it took him a moment to understand that he was indeed not seeing things. Rigel nodded a silent hello in his direction and forced a smile to his face, not hiding his true misery too well.

Thatcher pushed past Cabot and Booker and was at an instant playing mother hen for Rigel. Taking him by the hand like he was a child, Thatcher lead him to the table and sat him down, rushing off to go find him something to drink, shouting questions at Cabot faster than bullets down the barrel of a rifle.

“Oh God, what happened? Where did you find him? Is he alright? Did you hurt him?” Thatcher rambled on, shooting questions at them quicker than they could answer. Cabot opened his mouth to speak but before he could get a word out Thatcher would interrupt, too flustered and distressed to stop himself. Cabot quickly grew tired of this game and stormed over to Thatcher, grabbing hold of his shoulders. He smashed their lips together, doing so to both calm Thatcher enough for him to speak and let off some of his own steam, caused by the events of the morning. Thatcher gave a surprised squeak but soon melted in Cabot's grip, returning the kiss.

Booker shifted uncomfortably in his place, averting his gaze so he wasn't staring. From what he'd seen, Rigel was doing much the same. He coughed loudly into his hand and Cabot reluctantly parted with a sigh.

“We found two men, one bitten one not. We brought the good one home and put the other out of his misery. It's been a hard morning, Thatcher and were all quite tense, we just need some time to relax okay?” Cabot said, his expression tired and glum. Thatcher softened and he nodded, backing away from the three, giving them the space they needed and desired. Booker made his way to the table and sat down across from Rigel, Cabot joining them in the middle, silence overtaking the group.

Thatcher brought them water, asked if they needing anything else to a slow reaction of worn voices politely declining his offer with simple _'no'_ s, and returned to his book, sighing softly to himself as he settled into his seat.

Silence was all too common during these times, especially one that filled to the air with such heavy sorrow that one could not speak even if they wished. It was a pressure in each their chests, sobs held back in Rigel's throat and drowsy yawns escaping lungs despite no one being tired. It was cold; so cold the air burned when it was swallowed down, chilled with bitter emotions and sad sighs. It was unclear how long they stayed like this, lost in the quiet, but eventually Rigel found it in himself to speak up.

“If I may ask, what kind of plan do you all have for the future?” His voice was still heavy and dense with sadness, and it cracked enough for someone to tell he was only just barely recovering from what he'd seen. It was a bit of an odd question, but it was a good smart one to ask. Booker looked up from his lap and looked over at Cabot who sat up straighter, looking about to answer.

“Cabot and I are going to get enough gas to head to a city just down the way,” Thatcher spoke up suddenly, his voice the only not sounding so dreadfully sad stricken. It was almost chipper, but relaxed and respectfully kept sober. “We have some friends we're trying to meet up with.” He finished, folding down the corner of his book and setting it in his lap. Rigel nodded and a small smile worked it way onto his lips. Thatcher seemed to have that affect on people, able to bring a smile even in the darkest of hours. He looked over at Booker, about to ask him the same question.

“If they're even still alive.” Cabot butted in grimly, muttering. Booker grunted in annoyance and kicked him hard under the table. He didn't even care what the man thought of that, his little interruption was rude and he knew that at least someone in this room, even if it was him, would appreciate that. Cabot cursed and folded over the table, grabbing at his shin, shooting a glare up at him.

“Come on, Cabot, don't do that! We're all upset about the morning but that's no reason to go and ruin our one fucking good moment.” Booker growled, curling his hands into fists under the table. He was half expecting Cabot to strike him back, and he would be ready for him if he dared to try.

“Well excuse me for being realistic! We can't keep being so naive about this. Maybe I had thought that this _'plan'_ of ours had been fine before, but lets take a moment to _really_ look at it,” Cabot snapped back, pausing to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Worry flashed through Rigel and he slunk back in his seat, fearing the fire of rage he may have sparked.

“We're trying to find people we contacted weeks, maybe even _months_ ago now, in a world where most hardly make it out the door. And even if they are alive, how are Thatcher and I going to find them in a fucking _city_ of all places! A city filled with _walkers_ no less! We don't even have any way to contact them. We're not going to find them, doesn't matter if they're walking with the dead or still living and kicking, we're never going to see them again.” Cabot was breathing heavy by the end of his spiel, frustration radiating off in such force Booker swore he was him steaming. Booker gave him a narrow eyed glare but didn't deny his words, much as it hurt him to have reality shoved in his face in such a way.

They all knew, as much as they didn't want to, that his words were true.

Rigel frowned but didn't speak, keeping his gaze from Cabot; he wasn't interested in getting into this conversation. Booker didn't blame him, and followed his example. For once, Booker was quiet, no comment coming from his direction.

Booker perked up at the sound of a muffled sob and looked towards the sound to find Thatcher quietly crying, trying to muffle his whimpering into his sleeve. Overwhelmed and stressed far more than he allowed anyone to see, he was beyond breaking point. The tension the newcomer had brought was bad enough for him, but Cabot's rant had set him off. He'd kept a brave face through more than most, and he was well deserving a show of emotion, as much as it made him feel weak.

Booker shot Cabot a nasty look, considering making the innocent cry near to sin, but the other man seemed too stunned to react. He watched Thatcher a moment, expression softening. He looked guilty, and if Booker was honest he was glad he felt bad.

He got up from his seat in an almost dazed way, stumbling his way over broken furniture to get to his lover. He knelt down in front of him, taking hold of his hand and gently pulling it away from his mouth. Thatcher whimpered, sniffled as he did his best to hold back his sounds, locking eyes with Cabot. He gave him a sorry look and leaned down, pulling him out of his seat and into his arms. He shushed him softly, gently rocking them in their stance.

“Hey, hey, Thatcher, Darling, it's alright, I'm sorry,” He mumbled on, easily calming the younger man. Perhaps this was a skill he'd learned with experience, Booker wasn't sure, but from how quickly and how almost robotic and automatic his actions were, it was an educated guess. Rubbing his back just below the neck, trailing fingers along his shoulder blades, speaking under his ear in hushed tone, it all seemed almost like an act. Thatcher was quick to stop his crying, though he still rested in Cabot's arms, refusing to leave. He hummed softly, his head pushing into Cabot's chest, his eyes shut.

As nice as the room had settled, Booker couldn't get a single little detail off his mind. “So, now that you've calmed your significant other, maybe we can talk about this plan of yours and how you specifically said _'Thatcher and I'_ instead of _'Thatcher,_ you _and I'_. You're not really going to leave me behind are you?” Booker asked with a cross of his arms. It was a particularly bad time to start another fight he knew damn well, but at this point he didn't give a damn.

He'd thought he'd be joining these two, but that one bit of what he hoped to be misinformation might have ruined his entire plan. He'd figured where these two went he would follow, but that seemed not to be the case. Least not the case that Cabot knew. Mentioning it, Maybe Thatcher could save him here. Cabot looked over his shoulder and shook his head, trying to silence him before something truly deadly broke out between the two, but to Booker's surprise, and his dread, it was Thatcher who spoke up.

“Booker, as much as we appreciate your help, we just don't have the room,” Thatcher started, his voice quiet and careful. He was trying to be gentle, but Booker wasn't about to take it.

“Bull- _fucking_ -shit! You have more than enough room for one more, even with all your food and shit. I'm part of the group now, where you go I go, that's how groups work-”

“But you're not part of us, Booker!” Thatcher yelled, so far the first time Booker had heard him raise his voice in such a way. The young man shivered, like he'd frightened himself with his own words, but he continued still.

“Look, I like you, I really do, but you were never part of us or our _'group'._ We took you in and gave you shelter, but we never planned to do anymore than that, I'm sorry.” Cabot gave his lover a glance, nuzzling his shoulder softly, whispering something to him which Booker could not hear. It was either asking him to calm down or letting his approval be known. Booker guessed the latter with the smile that was hinted on the man's lips. Booker shook his head in disbelief, almost tripping over one of the chairs backing away from the two new found traitors.

“So that's it, eh? You came along and saved me, and _for what_? To leave me behind while you two love birds go and chase some people you don't even know are alive?” Booker wouldn't say he wasn't upset, he didn't even bother hiding it. Heat was rising in the cramped space and Rigel made a sound of worry behind them but was ignored.

“Booker, you knew very well we weren't bringing you with us, get over it.” Cabot spat, glaring at him from the corner of his eye, nosing at the crook of Thatcher's neck. Booker flinched, hurt and ferocity boiling in his blood like magma burning through his skin. He was filled with rage and betrayal and such anger that he swore he could feel fire light and start to burn in his chest. It scorched his lungs, his breath feeling hot and dry. Twice now this had happened to him in only a few days, and he was _tired_ of it.

He looked over his shoulder at Rigel, the quivering man confused and unsure of his part in all this. He took notice to Booker's gaze and shook his head, eyes begging for him not to get him involved too.

“And what about him? This new guy you brought in? You just going to leave and dump him on me? Is that your plan, you two fucking traitors!” Rigel flushed, trying to hide his face by looking away. He wanted no part of this, but he did take what Booker ha said into consideration, the realization of the truth of it close to bringing tears back into his eyes. Thatcher looked close to tears himself and Cabot was the one to address Booker, rubbing his lovers back soothingly.

“I was merciful on that man and brought him to us while he still had time. I don't plan for him to join us and I can't see a man like you taking him with you, so I guess the poor fool is on his own now isn't he?”

“Ruthless fuckers!” Booker snarled.

“Booker, please don't do this,” Thatcher tried, becoming more desperate to calm him, but his words only fueled his rage. His tone did little more to aid him but add coal to the fire that burned within Booker's chest.

“Shut your filthy mouth, you rat!” He snapped, making Thatcher flinch in Cabot's grip. He whimpered, and that seemed more enough for Cabot.

“Alright, that's quite enough from you,” Cabot muttered, pulling the gun from his belt which Booker had forgotten to retrieve. Booker froze and Rigel rose from his seat, terror set clear in his gaze. Thatcher made a noise of panic and nudged Cabot gently, shaking his head urgently. There was a click from an too known source, and Booker expected right then and there for him to die. He expected a bullet and he wasn't sure if he was grateful or disappointed that it didn't come.

“Cabot, _no_. We don't have to do this with violence,” Thatcher pleaded, looking over at Booker and Rigel, giving them a frown. He paused, thinking, Booker relieved to see Cabot listening to his lover, waiting for him to continue. He wanted Thatcher to convince him, to give him a reason why not to kill the impudent man before him.

“We'll have them leave, send them off with a pack full of supplies, let them go on their own, right, Cabot?” Thatcher urged quickly, more harshly gripping at the arm that held the gun pointed at the guests. Cabot was reluctant, and didn't lower his weapon, but roughly ordered Thatcher to go off and get some things for Booker and Rigel to share. At a sign of protest from Booker he threatened to fire into the air and draw in the walkers. Booker stayed silent after the threat, knowing very well that Cabot would do it and promptly throw him to them. He figured Rigel would share his fate if he slipped up and the poor fool didn't deserve that.

Being shot and put to death quick was merciful, but bring walkers into this, drawing them in with sound and sicking them on someone, that was evil, that was _devils_ work. Booker wasn't even surprised Cabot would suggest such a harsh fate. That beast was the devil in a handsome man's skin. Booker bet if you looked close enough, a pointed tail was hidden somewhere underneath those slacks of his.

Quick to find one of probably many old backpacks, Thatcher had stuffed it full of what items they could spare and brought it to Booker, Cabot as always, never not close behind him. Always there to protect his lover. With an apology, Thatcher handed him the bag and shortly after Cabot escorted he and Rigel outside at gunpoint. Booker spat a curse at him as he was practically pushed from the base, while Rigel followed without protest. That said, he did look very disappointed.

Being thrown into the streets was once thing, doing at dusk, when the walkers were active; that was a whole other realm of sick. Booker flipped off the traitors, threw the backpack over his shoulder and started on his way to somewhere he knew not yet. That was a short lived partnership, but this wasn't something he was unused to. He'd gone through many partners since the outbreak, this was the first to give him some supplies to live off of which was a nice surprise if anything.

Rigel was trailing behind him like a lost puppy, unsure of what to do with himself now that he'd lost his shelter and companions both. Booker wasn't sure how much he'd been given precisely, but he was skeptical it would be enough to sustain him and this newcomer both. Plus, he didn't want to have someone to look after, doubting this man could look after even himself, leaving that job to fall upon Booker's shoulders. Whether he made it through the night or died trying to find shelter Booker didn't care, as long as he wasn't there to watch it happen.

“Hey, you, get out of here! You're not getting anything out of me, so why don't you fuc-” He was cut off by a gun shot, Cabot standing the doorway, watching them with grim intent. He was trying to get them off the property, and the grumble of a zombie in the distance told Booker his method. It was an unconventional way of getting people to leave, but it would damn well work.

Booker took off sprinting down the darkening road and veered towards the left, none too sure where it led. He didn't honestly care, as long as he didn't find walkers in his way. To his dislike, Rigel was on his heels, panting softly, already struggling to keep up. He tried to throw a less than kind message back at him until the growl of a zombie stole his attention. The creature roamed out from its hideaway, drawn by the noise. The neon sign of the store lay on the ground for Booker to read, a video game store from what he could tell.

Booker skid to a stop, the rotting beast not seeming to notice him, much to his relief. He held his breath, hoping the thing wandered away so he could book it down the street away from it and all it's friends. He couldn't help a cry of surprise when Rigel came stumbling up behind him and ran into him, knocking them both to the ground.

“You stupid motherfucker!” Booker yelled, shooting a glance at the corps, the corps groaning and slowly turning to face them. He swore he saw the shadow of a smile on its face, or at least what was left of it. Milky, white eyes locked onto Booker and with another strangled sound the zombie began shuffling its way towards the two. Another sounded from the right and he found one more was struggling to get over the dying foliage of a bush planed in a dirt space just off the parking lot of the store. Booker spat out a curse and pushed Rigel into the asphalt, using him to pick himself off the ground, panicking to stand.

He'd just about run away, found himself somewhere to hide, when Rigel gave a whimper. Something about that sound, that one little pathetic sound, made guilt well in Booker's chest. He wasn't going to turn around, he didn't have time he tried to tell himself, yet still he ran back and lent down, grabbing hold of the back of that morons coat collar. Dragging him from the ground, Booker urged him to move, tugging him along much like Cabot had done when he was in need.

He didn't want him around, but he wasn't going to be Cabot. That one action might have well physically bound Rigel to him for all he cared. There was no going back on his words like the many he'd been with, he was stuck with this straggler and now he was sure that he was going to pay the price, one way or another.

-=+=-

“Come on, keep up,” Booker called back, shifting the backpack a little higher up his shoulders. Rigel groaned behind him and Booker frowned. He had yet to start complaining, but it felt like it wouldn't be soon now before he started whining. He'd been holding back, keeping himself at bay, but Booker figured there was only so far Rigel could go before he would need a moment. “We'll rest soon, alright?” Rigel made a strained sort of laughter; a hysteric, sad noise.

“You said that an hour ago.” He breathlessly giggled, eyelids lazily drooping. He looked about to sleep, like he was having trouble keeping awake, but Booker could tell he wasn't tired in that sense. They'd been walking most of the day, so it was understandable that he was physically tired. He glanced back at him and then back towards the road. It was a cracked and broken path ahead of them seeming to go on forever. At this point, even he was getting tired, but with no shelter in sight, they had to keep moving.

Lined by trees looming over them like green towers, the highway was an unforgiving place. It was dangerous, but they had little else to go.

It'd been a few days since Cabot had left them for dead, and so far death felt it would have been a favor. They'd been walking near non-stop, travailing east from what they could tell, unable to find a shelter that could last them very long. It was noon, and the heat of the afternoon sun beat down on their backs and left burns its wake. Rigel loudly licked at his lips with a dry tongue, parched but not bothering to try and weasel the water out of Booker, the man keeping it locked away in the backpack.

They'd been lucky to have found a convenient store along their journey out of the city, within it three unopened water bottles which someone had missed. They had practically chugged the first, too caught up in their happiness to find any self control.

They still had two, but with how fast the last had gone, Booker was much less willing to share now. Food they had enough of to last them a few more days, medicine they were lucky to have any but it was shelter they drastically needed. There was no where safe to be without somewhere to hide and store your supplies. They were vagabonds till they could find a home to call their own, somewhere they would be safe from the elements and walkers both, even if just for a little while. They needed not a permanent home, but at least somewhere to stay the night would be a wonderful find.

Booker paused and Rigel followed suit, turning to look behind him. A car rumbled along the road, an old pickup with rust climbing along the rim of the wheel. It was a dusty, light blue and there were gunshots and a dent running along the length of the left side, but it was stilling running. As it got closer, it started to slow and Booker ushered Rigel behind him, his hands curling into fists.

With no weapons to defend himself, his hand were all he had left. At the very least, maybe he could give Rigel a head start.

It came to a stop in front of them and the window was rolled down, a women in a red bandanna looking at them from under a pair of aviators. Short, scruffy blonde hair glistened in the sun, looking something like slick, oily gold. She frowned at them and slid the glasses up to rest on her forehead, peering at them through squinted amber eyes.

“So, skipping the friendly introductions and all that bullshit, do you two need a ride or what?” She asked, raising a brow, leaning out the window to look closer at the two wanderers. Rigel gently tried to nudge Booker forwards, urging him to take the deal and save them the walking, and in return Booker grunted and slammed his heel against the front of his boot. Rigel yelped and stumbled back, almost falling into the bushes lining the metal railing of the highway's wall. Neither Booker nor the women payed him any mind, though a small smile did break upon her lips.

“What's the catch?” He replied, cautiously trying to glace over at the passenger seat, another someone in the vehicle. The inside of the car smelled like strawberry perfume and the scent wafted out into the open air, slipping past Booker like a snake before disappearing into the wind. He shifted and watched the women closely, careful to keep track of where she kept her hands. The women snorted and rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

“Catch? There is none. You look like you need some help and we're offering it to you, free of charge, take the offer or we'll be on our way.” She tapped and let the glasses fall back over her eyes with a smug smirk, Booker looking at his reflection in the shiny, tinted glass. He hummed thoughtfully and gave a glance back at Rigel, who was nodding furiously now that he'd gotten back on his feet.

“Sure, thanks.” He finally said, returning her smile. Rigel gave a sigh of relief and the woman’s smile widened at the reply. It didn't seem sly in anyways, so either she was a fantastic actor or this was no set up like he had predicted. A click and the back doors were unlocked, Booker and Rigel climbing in with quick thanks. Once the doors were closed the engine came back to life and they took off down the road, roaring along the breaking street.

“Name's Katze, you two?” The driver asked, her passenger looking back at them. She wore a cheap felt pirate hat, her black hair cut short and jagged, clearly the work of dull scissors or a piece of glass. She also had sunglasses, but they were pushed up already, resting upon her forehead. Rigel waved at her and she smiled at him and waved back, then glancing to Booker who gave her a nod of hello.

“Booker, man next to me is Rigel, and your friend is?” Katze looked over at her and grinned wildly. She poked the woman in the ribs, leaning over to her, the truck swerving slightly.

“My girlfriend, that's who!” She cried happily, the passenger rolling her eyes and huffing a laugh, turning back to Booker.

“Loreley, nice to meet you.” She held out a hand and Booker shook it, nodding to her again. They seemed nice enough, though their lack of plan was clear from the moment they pulled up. The unprepared normally didn't last long, but there two seemed to be doing pretty well compared to most. They were blasting some unknown CD, a rock band of sorts, shouting out the mangled remains of what might have been lyrics while a guitar screeched in the background. Booker didn't mind it, was even sure he knew this band from somewhere. Rigel on the other hand grimaced, trying to distract himself by looking out the window.

Loreley kicked her feet up onto the dash and crossed her hands behind her head, shifting the hat over her eyes, looking to rest. Katze stuck her tongue out, scrunched up her eyes and mischievously flicked the hat off her head, giving her a goofy look when Loreley sent a glare in her direction. They both broke into fits of laughter and Rigel couldn't help but join in, the three giggling like school children. Even Booker couldn't help but crack a smile.

Without a plan or not, at least they were having fun. That was hard to find in these times, and Booker had to admit that it was refreshing to see someone so happy and carefree, even as their world burned around them.

“So where are we going?” Booker asked, watching the trees pass them by in a blurred green mass as they sped along the highway to who knows where. The car jumped on each bump, the sound of rocks crunching under their tires. It was soothing compared to the rest of the noises they heard during their travels; the growl of a zombie, the ring of gunfire out in the distance, the scream of some new dead. Katze shrugged and tapped at the gas meter with a heavy sigh.

“As far as our gas will take us, or until you want to get out.” She set her gaze to the road and the car seemed to take a different air, “Or until something real bad happens.”

Their laughter died down and the truck fell into an awkward silence. No amount of fun and laughs and jokes could really change their situation, and as nice as it was to live wild and free, reality always had a way of catching up on them. Even here in their truck, danger lurked around every corner. Booker huffed in annoyance, mostly at the apocalypse and all the trouble it had brought with it, but also at Rigel who was looking out the window wistfully. There was no particular reason he was annoyed with Rigel, he just didn't like him all that much. He turned away from the trees and glanced back at Booker, giving him a questioning look.

“Listen, we need a plan-” Booker was interrupted by Katze bursting into laughter, an insane cackle that left her choking to find her breath. She had to bring the truck to a stop, too distracted by her crazy giggling to drive. Loreley pat her shoulder and snickered herself, not at Booker as she was but at her love. He raised an eyebrow and Loreley turned and shrugged back at him; she looked used to this.

“ _A plan!_ Oh man, that's rich that one. What kind of plan are you trying to make here?” It was mocking, and she couldn't stop her chuckling, which made her words hard to understand. Booker frowned at her and cleared his throat. He took a moment to wait for her to calm before beginning.

“Well, we need to know what we're going to look for when you drop us off, a plan of action so we're prepared for when we leave the safety of this truck,” Rigel nodded in agreement, trying to understand Katze's humor with a quizzical look. She shook her head and Booker could practically feel the roll of her eyes that followed. She sent the car forwards again, and Booker tried to hold his tongue. It wasn't his place, but then again, when was it ever.

“What wrong with being prepared? Making plans? It's a smart thing to do, keeps you from ending up with nothing but a rusting pick-up and a pair of cheap aviators.” He said with narrowing eyes. He did his best to hold back the insulting tone of the words, but it did him near no good as he spat them forth. Rigel reached out in front of him as if the catch the words Booker spoke and stop them, but his hand grasp at thin air, his eyes widening in horror and surprise. Katze slammed on the brakes and the party lurched forwards, Booker unceremoniously slamming against the back of the drivers seat. Rigel and Loreley had braced themselves and Katze sat firm in her seat, unmoving and bitter.

“And watching your mouth keeps you from being thrown out of the truck, now shut up, Booker.” Katze replied, pausing to glare at him over her shoulder before starting back on their way. Loreley rubbed at Katze's shoulder and slowly moved her hand to massage between her shoulder blades, making no comment. Booker rubbed the bridge of his nose and licked at his lips, that copper taste of blood meeting his tongue. He shouldn't have pushed it.

Loreley tossed a packet of tissues back at them and Rigel flinched when it landed in his lap. Booker snatched it from him and tore it open, shoving a couple of the thin, rough pieces of paper into his right nostril.

He heard Rigel stifle a chuckle and contemplated breaking his nose in return, but decided against it. He didn't need the idiot sobbing the rest of drive, and with the look Loreley was giving him over her shoulder, he doubted the girls would find it as amusing as he would. Sniffling, he grumbled incoherently to himself, regretting.

How stupid was he?Two people offer him a ride to safety and to repay them he makes a rude comment about their lack of a plan. Stupid, rude and unnecessary. One of these days his tongue was going to get him killed, or at the least he was going to have it cut from his mouth, knowing the kinds of people who inhabited this doomed planet.

“Look, I'm sorry about that,” Booker mumbled, bowing his head in shame. Katze grunted and he took it as acceptance. It wasn't forgiveness, but it would do for now.

The ride had turned tense and silent, save for the radio still blaring away. Rigel was somehow napping despite the music, Loreley and Katze silently keeping each other company. Booker was back at the window, watching forest pass them on either side. His nose had stopped bleeding, but he was still sniffling with the ghost feeling of blood running down his lips. They'd been driving for a good while before Katze spoke up.

“Shit.” She hissed, the truck slowing to a stop again. There was a car wreak ahead, some walkers wandering around it, pawing into the broken windows with greedy hands. Even from the car, the shouting was audible. It was the shrill sound of terror and sorrow coming from the broken vehicle, someone screaming their agony and attracting the attention of the dead. Rigel woke with a startled snort and looked out his window with blurry vision, swaying over to look out the front.

“ _Alta Dio._ ” He breath, hearing the crying, rubbing at his tired eyes. Booker shook his head and pat the headrest of Katze's seat.

“Come on, we should go around it.” He said softly. She stiffened and turned to look back at him with disgust, shaking her head.

“ _Fuck that_ , I don't know who is in that car but we're not leaving them like this.” She unbuckled her seat belt and Loreley was quick to follow, wordlessly tagging along. She grabbed hold of her loves arm and paused, looking as if about to talk her out of it. Instead, much to Booker's dislike, she found her a baseball back from under the seat and handed it to her, nodding before they exited the truck. Booker rushed to the window, watching as Katze began to beat the few walkers surrounding the car into submission while Loreley lagged behind, staying by the truck and slowly walking along the metal railing just keeping the dark forest at bay.

“Shouldn't we get out too?” Rigel asked, nervously watching Katze swing her weapon in fury and determination at one of the corpses, blood spraying from it's skull as it feel heavy to the ground with a last gurgle. Another stumbled behind her and she only just caught it, her bat slamming into it's chest with an audible crack making Rigel flinched. She held it down with a foot on it's neck and slammed the head of the bat repeatedly into its head, not stopping until the rotting skin and skull broke and let flow whatever blood was left inside the beast.

“I don't think we have much of a choice.” Booker said, throwing open the truck door and jumping outside, the walkers now all dead from various head injuries. He took note of the car keys left inside the truck before he started to make his way over to the broken car.

Katze was knelt at the scratched, red side; trying to pry open the door with much difficulty. Booker begrudgingly went to help her, standing at her side before grabbing hold of the broken, bent door and pulling at it with all his might. She didn't vocally acknowledge his aide, but a quick glance behind her and a smile told him it was appreciated.

With a crunch and a loud screech of metal Booker was sure would attract more of the roaming dead, they managed to get the door open. He peered inside and was quick to turned his head away, cursing.

Two of them; one already dead, his neck impaled on the broken glass of the windshield. His dead eyes seemed to watch Booker, his mouth hanging limply open, blood dribbling from the corner of his lips. He didn't move, and Booker hoped he would stay that way.

The other was sobbing, no longer screaming now that the door had gotten open and he had fallen out onto the road, seeming to have taken some of the pressure off whatever wound had been causing him to wail like he had been before. His leg was trapped under the seat, and before the door had been wrenched open, he'd been pressed against it. A cut on his head bled from under thick orange hair, leaving red trails flowing down his cheek, dripping off his jaw. His stuck ankle was also stained with blood from where the seat dug into his skin and it was bent at an angle Booker could only guess was excruciating.

How long they'd been like this was hard to tell, but Booker didn't guess it to be very long ago seeing as this one hadn’t died yet. Had they arrived much later, this one would have bled out and turned to a walker. He'd probably have leaped out at them, losing the leg in favor of latching onto either of the two.

Katze knelt down and held out a hand to him, gently touching his clean cheek. He whimpered and leaned into her hand, whispering something too muffled in his sobbing to be understood clearly. He tried to reach up to take her hand into his own but too weak to move, it only twitched lifelessly at his side. This seemed to frustrate him, because he sputtered and began sobbing louder once more.

“You think we can get him out?” She asked, directing her question to Booker. He shrugged, kneeling next to her and looking past her and their injured man to the seat, bent and pinning him in place. It was beyond their help, even if they could get the seat moved. It was improbable they could get it to budge, what with the way it was wedged near under the dash, plus they had this man in the way who would no doubt make a fuss with them trying to move his ankle around while they worked. In the end, he was too far into his injuries and blood loss to be saved, and the work wouldn't be worth it.

“Not unless you have some good tools and blood bags for him in the back, no.” It was a cold answer, and Booker looked grimly at the man. Putting him out of his misery was best they could do at this point, but he doubted Katze would let him. He was half-tempted to suggest it anyways, but he doubted it would help him get on her good side.

She sighed, but didn't leave the dying man's side. Through his crying, Booker could only just makes out a few mangled words being mouthed past his blubbering.

“ _Bestia, no, no, no, Bestia, no,”_ He mumbled, shaking his head. He sucked in a sharp breath and coughed, Katze pulling her hand out of the way as blood forced itself up his throat and past his lips, dripping down his chin.

“Who's Bestia?” She asked quietly to no one in particular, returning her hand to the mans cheek.

Rigel yelped, Loreley screamed and a zombie growled contently. Booker whirled around to find the creature sinking its teeth into Loreley's neck, tearing a large chunk of flesh from her shoulder. The thing had wandered from the forest, drawn here by the scent of blood and the sound of the wailing man no doubt.

“Shit.” Was all Booker could say, reaching around his belt in search of a weapon he didn't have.

Katze jumped to stand and with eyes wide in horror watched the carnage as more of the dead wandered out of the forest, each taking hold of Loreley from behind and beginning to tear into her. They poured from the trees, shambling out into the light to get their fill of fresh meat. Rigel ran terrified out of their way, hiding behind Booker once he had gotten close enough.

Booker looked to his side a moment too late before Katze was rushing towards them, screaming bloody murder, wielding her bat like it would really do her any good against that many and still growing undead. Rigel looked about to take off after her when Booker held him back with a firm hand on his shoulder. It was too late for them. He watched the dead grab and bite and tear, screams of rage turning to those of pain and then eventually silence.

It happened slower than it seemed, and Booker couldn't tear his eyes away from the gore. Everything seemed crimson splattered, eventually an intestine was torn free, a hand found its way to Katze's eye and pulled it from its socket, one of them bit off a nose and left a hole in Loreley's once beautiful face. A gruesome act to watch, yet he couldn't stop himself. It was Rigel's whimper of fear that finally freed Booker from his stunned state, and he leaned down and gently put his mouth to his ear.

“Come on, lets get to the car.” He whispered softly, slowly walking Rigel over to the truck, his partners eyes on the scene much like Booker's had been just before. Booker sat at the drivers seat and after a fair bit of persuasion and promise that there was nothing he could do for them, Rigel joined him in the back seat, not risking the walkers in an effort to take the passenger seat. Somehow in someway, the broken, red car at the side of the road had become alight, and the soft flicker of fire against a darkening backdrop of gore and death was almost pretty in some sick, twisted sense. The sun had just begun to set when Booker took off, leaving four bodies behind him.

He would have preferred to leave only two, but he supposed love made people do stupid things. At the least, Katze and Loreley were probably together somewhere. He bet Katze was cursing somewhere in heaven for stealing her car.

-=+=-

His eyelids had begun to droop again and Booker fought to keep them open. The battle between him and sleep seemed small and unimportant, yet still his and Rigel's lives hung in the balance. If he was to fall asleep at the wheel, they'd surly die. Crash into the bush and be eaten or crushed or both. As soothing as the purr of the motor and the slightly bouncy road were, Booker could not afford to rest unless he wished to end up like the man they'd found with Katze. He'd prefer to live then be the people who were found at the side of the road, Rigel crying his name, his neck impaled on glass.

He grumbled incoherently to himself and shook away the memory. Now was no time to reminiscent upon the past, especially when that had been less than kind to them. Better to stick to the present, even if that seemed just as bleak, there was at least that little glimmer of hope still.

Another bump jolted him upright and he snorted in mild surprise. He shook the tired from his thoughts and trained his gaze upon the road, the long stretch of cracked pavement all he could find. _Soon_ , he kept telling himself, _soon_ he could rest. He tapped at the glass of the dashboard, quiet _tinks_ like thunder to her ears. With how low the gas meter was, it was only a matter of moments now before-

The truck gave a sputtering cough, wheezing, and then the engine grew quiet. They slowed to a stop and Booker watched the world grow still before him. He looked out the bug stained windshield in almost confusion before his groggy mind could comprehend they had stopped.

He was relieved and infuriate all the same, and in response to the clashing emotions swore and punched the dash. Rigel came jumping back to life, too much like the dead did in these times, rubbing his eyes with a large yawn. He'd been napping in the back, sprawled across the seats, making use of the free space. He stirred slowly, eyes blurry with sleep, gazing lifelessly out into the empty street.

“Did we run out finally?” He asked with a tilt of his head, only half sure his voice had spoken what his mind had asked. He sounded so unworried, like this wasn't going to greatly affect them as it would. Booker didn't answer right away, sighing in frustration.

“Yeah, but just our luck, there is a city up a head,” Booker replied, squinting into the sunrise. The outline of buildings and skyscrapers were framed in the morning light, like God was finally sending them some kind of savior for being such an asshole about everything else. Rigel sat up and mouthed a silent _'wow'',_ looking out at the sight before him.

How safe it would truly be they could not say, but bathed in a halo of light, the orange sphere that was the sun rising up behind it, it looked like heaven. Well, it was the closest they were going to get to that city in the clouds anyways.

Something made Booker feel uneasy about this place. Perhaps it was the fact it seemed too conveniently placed, or it looked too pristine and clean. He could not say, but _something_ wasn't right. In the end, unless they wanted to scavenge the brush for gasoline and maybe find a walker instead, it was their best bet.

“Come on, let's see if we can find us some help.” Booker grumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

The walk was short in truth, but felt longer and far harder to Booker's weak, tired limbs. He wasn't just tired, he was exhausted, not having slept well since Katze and Loreley had died. He tried not to think about it, but the nightmares kept playing over and over in his head. The walkers tearing them apart like they were turkey dinner at Thanksgiving, blood dripping down their bony fingers and painting the grass beneath them red.

Some nights he was just watching, helplessly hearing the girls wail as they were eaten alive. And other times he took part in the killing. His hands became sticky with blood and mouth filled with human flesh, the taste sweet as a copper cake. Either way, it always woke him, and he could never force his eyes back closed afterwards.

Rigel at the very least, was sleeping soundly. It was best at least one of them was coherent.

As they got closer, Booker's wariness grew. The city looked well populated and was surrounded by what looked to be a crudely build concrete wall. He could see people working on it as he watched, mending cracks, holes and building it higher and farther around the city. Where anyone would have the supplies to put something like this together was unimaginable, but here it was before him. If humans were innovative enough to managed to find the material to build a wall, maybe, just maybe, they'd actually survive this apocalypse.

The workers, all looking male, were supported by rickety looking scaffolding and ropes. Some walked on the wall, setting down molds while others poured what must have been concrete into them. The had no ropes to support them were they trip, and most of the men looks tired and unhappy. It wasn't the safest work environment, and he'd be damned if they were willingly doing this. Booker watched as a man tripped backwards and tumbled down the outside of the wall, screaming before landing with a soft thud. He didn't get up, and a pool of blood was beginning to surround his head. A guard came around and gave him a sharp kick in the ribs before shooting him through the skull.

There was also a sign, painted in red, the smears of words looking too much like blood for Booker's liking.

“ _Welcome to Paradise”_ It read.

“I don't like this, Booker.” Rigel muttered, slinking away from the place in fear. For once, Booker could agree with his partner. Perhaps they'd find some spare food with that walker while they searched the brush.

“Come on, lets turn around, we'll find somewhere else to-” Booker was cut off by the cocking of a shotgun, his blood running cold at the sound. He turned to find a man with a rather impressive mustache glaring at him down the barrel of his weapon. His yellowing teeth were bared and gritted, face twisted into an animal like scowl. He was wearing a faded police uniform but carried no badge and something told Booker he wasn't truly a cop.

Must have bee one of the outside guards. A sentry to watch over the wall and to keep intruders out. Both the dead and live ones. Also apparently they were supposed to put down fallen workers from what Booker had observed.

“State your name and purpose, _now_.” He shouted, pressing the gun threateningly into Booker's chest. Booker grunted from the force, any harder and it may have left bruises.

Another man came running in a matching uniform, growling at Rigel to put his hands into the air as he pressed a handgun into his temple from behind. Rigel jumped and shivered in fear, careful to follow every instruction. He must have been thankful for the only thing that was screamed to him was to hold still, which he happily obeyed.

“My name is Booker, we're just looking for shelter and maybe some gas if you can spare it?” He spoke carefully, calmly, ever watchful of this guard. Who knew how trigger happy these people were; they certainly looked ready to kill at the slightly infraction. The guard hummed, moving slowly around him, poking Booker sharply in the side with his weapon. He moved behind him and Booker tensed as hands felt him up, searching for weapons Booker wished he had.

“Are either of you bit?” The guard asked, moving back to Booker's front, watching him with a narrowed, suspicious gaze.

“No.” Booker said simply, figuring a witty remark would earn him a bullet through his forehead. The guard grunted, as if considering whether he was speaking the truth, carefully looking him over once more. The other guard checked Rigel, holding a shaking him by the cuffs he'd tightened around his wrists, patting him down as well. Rigel looked near to tears, too frightened for his life to say much more than chocked whimpers.

“We'll bring them in, send them to Linea.” The first guard finally said to his partner, the other man nodding in reply. He turned to face the gate and waved to someone on the other side. Booker watched as another three more guards, dressed the same as the first two, came running.

One unlocked the sturdy metal door, seemingly the only door in the entire wall, and moved away, waiting for them to pass so he could close it once more. The other two joined the first and helped to lead Booker and Rigel inside the city.

It wasn't as perfect as Booker had first thought, but it was better than most. Most buildings were intact, the few in shambles being picked apart by workers for supplies. The rest left standing all has smaller signs similar to the one upon the wall. Most was storage for food, water and other general things one would need in an apocalypses. All of it was tightly locked up by chain and one to multiple key locks. Nothing here looked to be serve yourself, and that made Booker worry. Whoever had leadership over this community had everything in tight rein, and that was scarcely a good sign.

They were being lead towards an office tower, what looked to be the headquarters for the high and mighty of this place. It was set towards the left of the compound, towering over the little stores that provided storage to everything besides medicines and weapons from what Booker had observed. He watched as children played in the streets, other people, most female from the looks of it, talked and watched as he and Rigel were escorted inside. They whispered to themselves, some looking curious, other worried.

The inside of the tower was stunningly clean compared to most of what the city had to offer. Clear white tiles that looked regularly moped and brushed covered the floors, while the walls were painted a fresh looking beige. The air smelled of chemical roses; that sickly sweet and extremely fake scent you got from cheap air freshener. Even so, at least it didn't smell of rotting bodies like the rest of the world.

One of the guards moved to speak to a receptionist, the young, pretty woman nodding and picking up the tower phone, calling who knows who. She must have caught Booker's look, for she looked towards he and Rigel and gave them a reassuring smile, which he returned kindly. Rigel was too busy staring at the floor to notice her kindness, worrying himself sick.

No longer than mere minutes, the elevator hit the bottom floor with a _ding_ and the doors came creaking open. Two men stepped out, one greeting the guards, the other unable to.

The first was a man with a decorated cloth tied around one eye, his one good eye finding Booker almost instantly. He hummed in thought and then began to shoo away the guards. The second tilted his head and stared at Booker with sharp blue eyes. Thick stitches were sown into his lips and Booker couldn't help but stare in horror.

It had regained its innocent in one instance, but the compound seemed much as welcoming as the man falling off the wall had been before.

The man seemed to notice his gaze and gently touched at his lips, giving a small smile, as if trying to relax him.

The first, after finally convincing the guards he would be fine on his own, looked them over with his one eye, Booker now left wondering what terror hid under that cloth and whether it had been an accident or a punishment.

“Your names?” He asked flatly, crossing his arms behind his back. He stood rigidly, looking royal, or at least high in command.

“Booker, and man beside me is my partner Rigel. May I ask your names?” Booker asked as polity as he could, trying to keep his growing panic out of his voice. This man radiated authority, and he didn't need his lips sown shut or his tongue cut off or whatever they did to people who spoke out of place. The first gave him a curious glance, pursing his lips slightly.

“Linea, behind me in Sieno. A pleasure.” Linea held out a hand and Booker shook it, giving him a soft smile.

“If you could follow us please.” Linea turned on his heels and marched towards the elevator. Sieno lagged behind, waving Booker and Rigel before him. With some hesitation, they followed, Booker watching them with wary eyes. He probably would have trusted them, but what with the missing parts, it was hard to say they didn't make him uneasy.

Stepping into the elevator, the chrome doors closed shut and quite suddenly Booker felt rather claustrophobic. Booker calmed himself by listening to the small tune playing from the speakers on either side of the metal box in which he'd found himself tapped. He found it rather amusing, and couldn't help a smile. Linea seemed to notice and chuckled softly.

“I was never one for the elevator music either.” He said, never turning to look at Booker.

They stopped at the second floor, what seemed to be their medical ward, people in white smocks wandering the halls and jotting notes down on clipboards all around them. The offices of the building seemed to have been converted into examination rooms, Booker and Rigel following Linea into one of them. Linea glanced behind him to make sure his guests were still along with him before asking Sieno to take Rigel to another room.

Rigel was reluctant, nervously eyeing up the man of stitched mouth. Sieno waved him to follow and when he did not he gave him a glare and Rigel jumped to move along as if he'd been struck. He waited till Rigel was in front of him before gave an amused smile and shut the door behind them, leaving Linea and Booker alone.

Once the door had closed with its heavy _click_ , Linea took a seat at a stool he'd pulled from the corner of the room, taking a clipboard from a side table as well. He scribbled down a few things and then cleared his throat, looking up at Booker.

“If you could please undress. I need you to take all of it off.” Linea asked, crossing his legs. Booker frowned and shifted in place, stubbornly refusing. He wasn't quite expecting it, and hell if he was going to get naked in front of this man. He didn't usually go that far on the first date, not before a nice dinner at the very least. Linea sighed and rolled his eye.

“I just need to check for bites,” He explained in an exasperated tone. Booker guessed it wasn't often that people complied. Who could blame them, there were few people who would strip for anyone. For free even fewer.

“I can assure you I'm not bitten.” Booker growled as kindly as he one could.

“I still need to check, its part of the protocol.” Linea replied, frowning. Booker grunted and crossed his arms, making his displeasure known.

“At the very least I need you to take your shirt off, if you are so shy.” Linea drawled, slightly mockingly. Booker grumbled, but undid a few buttons and lifted the fabric of his sweat stained shirt over his head. He hadn't realized how bad of a wash the thing needed, and part of him was glad to have it gone. Booker tried to shy away when Linea stood but wasn't able to get far before the one eyed man was prodding as his stomach and sides.

“Any injuries or broken bones?” Linea asked, running his fingers down the length of Booker's side. Sensitive, Booker flinched and tried to shift away, promptly stopped when Linea swatted him lightly with the clip board, a silent order to hold still.

“None,”

“Any medical problems we should know about?”

“Nope,”

“Are you sleeping well, getting the rest you need?” Booker hesitated, and Linea seemed not to need anything more than that.

“Might give you something for that, its a common problem, maybe therapy would aid you?” Linea asked to himself, more mumbling to himself than speaking to Booker. About to assure him he didn't need therapy of any sort, not exactly wanted someone droning on about his current mental state, there came a steady, almost worried knock at the door and Booker had no time to talk.

Linea perked up and moved away from Booker, opening it to a worried looking Sieno. Booker watched with interest as he signed a couple frantic words and Linea hummed calmly in response.

“What's he saying?” Booker asked softly, worried for his partner. He could tell this was something to do with Rigel, it was just a feeling that somehow his partner had done something wrong. He hoped the idiot hadn't gotten himself into too much trouble.

“Seems your friend is bitten, but he's been so for weeks without any sign of turning, at least that's what the state of the bite tells us,” Linea paused, looking at Booker over his shoulder. “Did you know about this?”

Booker was shocked, and shook his head.

Bitten, he'd been travailing with an infected this entire time, and he'd never once been able to tell. He recalled when Cabot and he had found him, the way his partner had been. Rigel had no symptoms, he must be immune. Who knew it was possible. It explained the way he had pulling at his coat sleeve when they'd brought him back, and why he never took it off in front of Booker. He'd figured the man was shy but not because he'd had that to hide.

“Take some blood, run a couple tests and _tell no one._ Well, not that you can _._ I'll alert Mox later tonight.” Linea said in reply to some some more less frantic hand movements. Sieno nodded, looking a little irked by his backhand comment about his silence, pouted and wandered back to the other room, leaving Linea and Booker alone again. He turned and flipped off Linea before the door was shut on him.

Linea turned back to Booker, smiling. “Well, you seem healthy enough, I'll show you to your and Rigel's quarters.” Booker frowned, having hoped to finally have some space away from Rigel. He'd admit, he liked him a lot more than he did when they'd first met, but he also enjoyed having his own room. It'd been long while since he'd had time to himself, and it would have been a blessing.

“We have to share a room?” He grumbled, tugging his shirt back over his head. Linea stopped, pausing to turn to him.

“Space is limited, Booker. Be lucky you have a room at all, if it wasn't for your friend's special condition we might have made you two sleep outside.” He replied with an almost threatening smile. Booker decided it'd be better not to push his luck. What with one man silenced, and the other missing an eyes, who knew what they did to the ungrateful here. He nodded, swallowing.

“Good, now let me show you where you'll be staying.”

-=+=-

The room was surprisingly nicer than Booker had expected. He'd been thinking it would resemble a run down apartment building; the kind populated by by the few drugged out street rats who somehow could somehow scrounge up enough money for the low-cost rent and their next hit both. To his surprise, it was quite a well kept, clean room.

It had a horrid flora wallpaper, and smelt the same fake rose smell as that office building, but it came with two beds and that was enough to please Booker. Though a bit more privacy would have been great, he could take at least having a separate bed from Rigel. They'd been giving a room in an old motel, converted into a sort of apartment complex for what they were calling _'special cases'_. It seemed to be used for some of the more important folk of the compound, but not ones high enough class for the office tower.

Linea had explained, since they were new, they would be given a couple days to explore and get settled in before they'd be put to work.

Booker had been told he'd be either on the wall, out in the farm or doing inventory. At his look of disapproval, Linea reminded that he was one of the few people who was given a choice to what he wanted to do, he having worked out some deals with the _'high ruler'_ of the place, Mox just to have it possible that Booker could have some kind decision over what he did.

Mox seemed to be the self implemented dictator; a man who wore a suit and a eerie mask at all times. Linea, from what Booker had gathered, was his right hand man. Possibly he was used for more than just running messages and doing paperwork from what was rumored, but he wasn't exactly going to ask him to confirm said talk. Booker was tempted to ask about the red thread wound around his finger like a ring, but he didn't think it'd be a welcomed question either.

Out of the jobs, Booker wasn't truly interested in doing any of them. The wall seemed too dangerous, working on the farms was too much work in the sun and inventory was boring as watching paint dry. He inquired about guard duty instead; not as dangerous as the wall, he can sit in the shade if it suits him and it was defiantly a lot less boring. Plus he'd love to have a gun back in his hand, which he could greatly appropriate. Linea, frowning and seemingly annoyed by his lack of gratefulness for the work he'd done already, agreed to at least _'see what he could do'_.

Rigel was not to work, not in his condition. If he was to be doing anything that wasn't hanging around the compound and relaxing, it was being stuck in the labs. He seemed nervous about the idea of being a possible lab rat, but Linea had assured him there would no inhuman experiments. Rigel didn't seem to believe him, nor did Booker, but what were they to do about it. If he did not go willingly, he would be forced, Linea had assured.

Linea gave a last nod and smiled.

“I wish you two a goodnight, I'll let you know if I'm able to pull a few strings in order to have you a guard, Booker.” And with that, he turned and shut the door, leaving the two to their own company. Rigel sighed, wandering over to the bed and picking a book from the bedside table. Linea had left it for him, some hardcover Stephen King novel he figured Rigel might find some entertainment from. Booker might have work, but Rigel was not so lucky, and would need something to keep him occupied. Linea had recommended reading and making friends.

Booker lay down upon the bed next to him, crossing his arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling. It was water stained, and might be rotting, but it was a roof over their head nonetheless. He sighed and shut his eyes, letting his body sink into the old, hard spring mattress.

“So, how long have you been bit?” Booker asked softly, stifling a yawn. He turned to look at his partner, giving a small smile as Rigel visibly tensed. He hummed uncertainly, looking down at his left sleeve before setting his book back onto the side table.

“Oh, you heard about that?” He finally replied sheepishly, blushing slightly. Booker chuckled, nodding more to himself than to Rigel. His eyes wandered back to the ceiling, fascinated with a brown stain that looked vaguely like a horse.

“Yeah, Linea told me, but that doesn't answer my question.” Rigel shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck. He seemed reluctant to speak, but with another quick glance from Booker he finally caved.

“Well, about four days before you found Praecantatio and I, we both got bit around the same time. They came out of a building and attacked our group. We lost three others too; Lux, very beautiful lady, this one man in a black bike helmet I could never remember the name of, we just called him Ten for short, and our demolition expert and friend, Fractus.” Rigel took a moment to savor the memory, looking out at the wall with a dreamy expression. Booker couldn't say how long he must have knew them, but knowing how Rigel was with people, he'd probably been close to these friends of his.

“Praecantatio and I were both bit but at the very least were able to get away without losing a limb or out lives, like the other. It was only days after that he began to deteriorated, _a lot_ , faster than we could find help too, all the while I didn't. I remember he kept telling me _'you need to tell someone, find a cure'_ blah, blah, blah,” Rigel paused, seeming chocked. He didn't keep going, his voice trailed off into silence. He looked tired and worn, like even thoughts left him straining for energy.

Booker stood up from his bed with a grunt and sat back down next to him, resting a hand atop his in his lap.

“Go on.” He said softly, trying to encourage him to finish the story. He wanted to hear more, and who knew, maybe talking about it would make Rigel feel better about the whole ordeal.

“Right, right, sorry. Anyways, after he died I just didn't have it in me to tell you. I was worried you'd kill me, or worse, leave me behind. I knew you were going to see it one day, I just didn't know when.” Booker nodded slowly, looking away. He wanted to say that he wouldn't have hurt him if he'd found out before now, but deep down he knew he would have just used it as an excuse to leave him behind. If he'd seen the bite before now, Booker would have left this man to die, or been merciful and killed him himself.

“And now we're here, and now you know.” Rigel finished quietly, looking into his lap. Booker gave his hand a soft squeeze and Rigel glanced over at him, smiling a little. There was something about the way he looked at him, the way his soft, ash eyes shined with held back tears, which stole Booker's breath. He looked relived to be in his presence, like his company eased the pain of lost friends. That was new to Booker, and he wouldn't say he disliked it.

“You know, you're an alright guy,” Booker mumbled, only after he'd said it realizing how dumb he'd sounded. Rigel seemed to agree, because he laughed and gave him a smirk.

“Thanks, you're pretty good yourself.” They both had a good chuckle, calming with content sighs. Rigel cleared his throat and shifted just a little closer, almost carefully as if afraid. Booker was too busy watching the silent night through the glass doors that lead out to the patio to pay him any mind before he was reaching up and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek seemingly out of the blue. Booker jumped a little, blushing beyond his control and glancing over at Rigel, the man looking at his feet, cheeks pink.

“I, uhh, sorry.” He said, blush brightening to a rosy red. Booker didn't have a word so say, his breath gone from his lungs. He could only watch his partner in a sort of awe, looking down at that shy smile he was trying to hide with a fuzzy warmth filling the space in his lungs where air should have been. Without much thought, he took hold of Rigel's chin and pressed their lips together, his other hand moving to the back of Rigel's head, tangling in his curls.

Rigel gave a squeak, but was quick to relax against Booker's mouth, softly shutting his eyes. Booker caught every fluttering breath he took, parting his lips in an invitation for Rigel to do the same. He was quick to follow, allowing Booker's tongue to find his own. Booker's thumb rubbed softly at Rigel's jaw, the hold on his chin falling in favor of taking his hand. He held it close in his own, feeling the smooth, warm palm, so different from his own rough, callous hands. Rigel felt pure and new against Booker's rough and worn. He felt like an angel, Booker his devil. His sin. Slowly, near reluctantly, Booker pulled away, hand moving to cup Rigel's blushing cheek.

“Don't be.” He breathed, much more softly kissing Rigel's forehead, ruffling his hair. Rigel seemed stunned, but soon grinned like a madman, unable to contain himself. Booker wrapped an arm around him and pulled him down into the bed. It was late, and they were in much need of sleep. Rigel cuddled up against him, mumbling quiet nothing as he rest his head in Booker's chest. Booker rest his chin against the top of his head and smiled. He liked the way the younger looked in his arms.

-=+=-

The first day of freedom, Booker and Rigel figured it best to go look about the main square. The compound was a big place filled with lots to look at, and Booker liked to know his surroundings. They walked for a while before meeting a couple kind people who'd lived here long enough to know the routine well.

Rigel found himself enjoying the company of a pair of women, Sano and Cognitio. One was a nurse, the other a librarian, both very motherly and kind. Booker was pretty certain they were also a couple, but tried to keep his speculating to a minimum. He himself, somehow ended up laughing with a man named Gale, sharing a drink the man had managed to sneak. He only had one arm, the right having been lost in a flight accident prior to the apocalypse.

Things were starting to actually feel like paradise here and Booker even found himself considering this his long term home for himself and Rigel till the apocalypse got the better of their safe haven of till their lives ended with age getting the better of them. The compound still had that sinister air to it, and it was hard to ignore the screams of those unlucky few falling off the wall, but it was a lot nicer than they'd had in a very long time. Booker and Rigel were _safe_ , after so long of worrying about death, for once he could say they were _safe_.

The buildings themselves were quite nice compared to the rest of the world. Well kept by constant working janitors who wandered about the compound day after day, night after night. It was a job for those who could not be trusted with anything else, and an unsavory job at that. Gale had told him much as he explained how things worked around here, some of which from his tone he did not trust himself.

The curfew was at nine, anyone out later than that would be punished. Food was served to you either to your door or in the mess hall. Booker and Rigel were lucky to have theirs delivered to them, while Gale would have to fetch his own with the rest of the average class. You got only what was given to you, no more, no less, so eat what you can while you can. Sometimes you could sneak a beer out of the mess hall staff, which is how he'd gotten his and Booker's, but that was as extra as you may ever see. Plus, it was only a matter of time Mox found that out and the odd beer disappeared.

What truly made Gale grit his teeth were the punishments, which he was much against. For most offences it was merely a stern talking to, a warning to follow the orders before being sent back on your way. For others, or repeated offence, you went without a meal. The longer you kept it up, the more meals you weren't given. If it got bad enough, or you did something worth the time, a public whipping took place. Finally, if you could not conform and do as you were told, or happened to be caught doing the _unthinkable_ , a public execution was held.

“Its rare, thank Alta Dio, but they're never any fun for anyone, expect Mox, the bastard.” Gale muttered, glancing over at a guard cautiously. _'The Blue Men'_ as Booker heard them called, glanced their way and gave them a warm but very fake smile. Booker grunted and gave him a friendly nod, the man then wandering to watch over somewhere else. He'd be a Blue Man soon enough hopefully. A respectful job, but one many others disliked.

Booker couldn't help but look over at Rigel, laughing with the girls, seeming to be enjoying himself. It was nice, seeing him happy, especially after so long for seeing him trying to hide his dwindling hope. He'd always had that childish, giggly air to him, but seeing him truly enjoying himself and laughing so heartily was a beautiful sight. Gale poked him in the side and smirked once he'd caught his gaze.

“You have the hots for the kid over there, eh?” He half-asked, half-accused, pointing to Rigel. Booker rolled his eyes and pushed him away with snort.

“Yeah, maybe I do, what does it matter?” He challenged, glaring at his companion. Gale laughed to himself and held up his bottle.

“Don't matter to me, whatever flies your plane, my friend!” Booker smirked and with a roll of his eyes toasted his friend. Despite the particularly nasty punishments used to keep everyone in order, perhaps this place really would be best for him and Rigel, it would keep them safe. He took a swig from his drink and flinched at the sound of a church bell tolling. It was a grim sound, and Booker worried for what it might be calling. He coughed, nearly choking on his swallow, wiping his mouth and glaring at the direction of the bell.

“That's unlucky, looks like someone's going to get flogged, and just in time for you newcomers to see.” Gale grumbled, swallowing back what was left of his bottle. He stood and Booker gave him a look of confusion.

“Where you going? That eager to watch someone get beat?” He asked, swirling what little of his drink he had left.

“Its not that anyone wants to watch, Booker, you _have_ to. Now come on, The Blue Men get pissy when people are late.”

-=+=-

The crowd was silent and solemn, all standing in front of a platform, the stage having been built near an old, tumbling church. Most of the roof and left side of the building had crumbled away and left the space open to the elements, but the rubble had been cleared and the pews were still in tack for anyone who wished to pray. The bell tower still remained, the large brass bell still being rang, calling the community together to watch whatever punishment Mox deemed necessary for the day.

Booker stood next to Gale, across from them Rigel and the girls waited and chatted nervously. Booker stared at the platform with dislike as Linea slowly came marching up the steps, their announcer for the days event. He made his way to the edge and gave the crowd a quick glance, as if making sure the whole compound was watching. He paused to look down at the anxious faces of his citizens and cleared his throat loudly to gain the attention of anyone still talking.

“May I welcome our executioner, Sieno, followed by our always lovely ruler, Mox.” He said quickly, rushing to move out of the way of the coming superiors. The crowd murmured in worry at the sound of Sieno's name, and Booker found himself taken aback. _He_ of all people he was the executioner. He'd been frightening with the way his lips were but Booker would never have guessed he'd been even more of a horror.

Sieno came wandering up slowly, an axe in hand, the weapon near dragging on the floor. Its shining, glossy head looked polished, clean as like everything in this place. Sieno didn't stop to look over at the crowd, instead wandering to stand next to Linea, hefting the axe into his hand so the blunt of the head rest in his palm. Following him, came the great Mox himself.

Dressed to the nines in a suit of black, the crimson tie he wore seemed out of place upon its background of black and white. His face was covered by a very minimalist mask. A blank, white canvas save for two vertical lines meant to represent eyes. How he saw out of the thing Booker couldn't guess, but still his gaze sent shivers down his spine. He could see a red string wrapped around his finger, matching Linea's, the odd coil like a wedding band of sorts.

He flinched as Rigel came from behind him and grabbed hold of his arm, holding it close in his search for comfort. He gave Booker a scared glance and then returned his gaze back to the stage without as much as a word.

Mox stood at the front of the platform, tips of his well polished oxfords hanging off the edge, as the rest of things, black. He spread his arms, looking like he was about to tumble down into the gawking audience, yet he kept steady.

“My people, you know that I am a generous leader, am I not?” He asked in a booming voice, an expression of annoyance hinted on his tone. The crowd did not answer, and Booker couldn't tell if this displeased the leader or not. “I am a gracious leader, am I not?” He said with a slight growl, leaning to look down at the people stood around the front of the stage. They nodded, mostly out of fear than agreement, but doing so at all seemed to satisfy Mox.

“Then why is it I feel I should remind you that in order to keep this peace and provide for all my family that you must obey the few rules I have put in place?” He gave a wave of his hand and two Blue Men carried a thoroughly beaten man up onto the platform. His hands were bound, and they half-dragged, half-carried him up the steps. Despite his head being bowed, Booker could see one eye was swollen shut, his faces cut and still bleeding. His lip was split, and from the way one ankle was dragging, Booker guessed it must be broken.

“Saxum? _Saxum!_ ” A man screeched from the audience, in an instant trying to push his way to the front to get a better look at what must have been his friend or worse, his brother. Booker watched as two Blue Men came rushing from nowhere to stop him, holder him back with a grips under her arms. He flailed and kicked uselessly, screaming and crying for the man on stage to hear. He looked up, just long enough to see him wailing before one of the guards behind him roughly grabbed his hair and forced his gaze back down to the floor.

“This young man has been caught not only breaking curfew, but stealing food from my, _our_ storage. Trying to escape our carefully crafted paradise with _our_ hard earned food! This thief was acting as if I didn't already provide enough for my family and so he needed to leave, I was _insulted_.” Mox took a moments pause, and then continued, ignoring the shouting of the distraught man held by the guards. “And so, as painful as it is for me to do, I sentence this thief to death.” The crowd murmured, looking about each other. “Perhaps this will show you all why we must not even think of thievery in Paradise.” Mox finished, crossing his arms behind his back as he walked to stand next to Linea, Sieno moving out of his way and towards the victim.

The man’s crying grew louder, his howling drowning out the sound of soft, worried mumbling coming from the crowd. Booker could feel the fear, he could smell it in the air. It was the sour tang of sweat and anxiety, this place reeking of it.

Rigel gripped his arm tighter, gasping silently. Gale gave a look of repulsion and spat on the ground in front of him. Wiping his lips he looked towards Rigel and frowned deeper. “I'd look away, it probably isn't good for your health to watch.”

The man was dragged forwards and made to kneel. The Blue Men pushed him forwards till his head hung over the edge of the platform, Mox having moved to stand at the side. He watched the event with sightless eyes, yet Booker felt he knew exactly what was happening.

Sieno trudged towards the man, almost reluctantly so, his axe in a gloved hand. He gave the man a look of pity, taking his place at his side. The axe looked shiny and new, well taken care of. It glinted bright in the sun, the shine making Booker squint. His mouth hung open in a disgusted scowl, and his eyes widened as Sieno raised the weapon above his head.

Booker flinched when the first stroke came down upon the back of the man's neck, a sickening squelch splattering red down towards the people, the crowd of them shifting away from the spray of blood. It left a large wedge in his flesh, but had broken no bone. The man screamed in agony, his friend mimicking his wailing. His body lurched forwards and if not for the Blue Men taking holds on his shoulders he would have fallen. The second strike broke through something with a crunch, but the man howled on in pain, yet to die. He sobbed and cried for mercy, for his brother, the man screeching for his release.

Booker wanted to look away, but something in his mind forced his eyes to watch. This reminded him too much of Katze and Loreley, he'd felt helpless then and he felt much the same now. Gale kept his gaze to the ground, muttering about the injustice. He looked over at the man they were holding back, never stopping his struggling in an effort to get to his friend.

The third and final strike finally silenced the man’s screaming and sobbing, his head coming free with a sound like chopping wood, falling to the bloody mess already pooled upon the road. His body limply collapsed, The Blue Men letting it go and watching with mild amusement as it flopped off the edge and landed with a wet slap near the head. The man's expression was one set in agony, his eyes open wide and staring towards the sky.

“ _No, Saxum!_ My brother, he was _my brother,_ you monster!” The man cried as The Blue Men finally let him go. He came running towards the body, pushing Booker out of the way in his desperation to reach what was left of his brother. Booker watched as he fell to his knees and pulled the bleeding body into his lap, stroking its clothing and sobbing into the air.

Booker looked over to Rigel, his partner's eyes wide in horror. He shook his head in disbelief and turned away, burrowing his face into Booker's side, sounding something close to nauseous. Booker put an arm down his shoulder, his eyes never turning away from the brothers.

“Come on, let's get out of here.” Gale grunted, patting Booker's shoulder. Booker hesitated, but eventually turned away from the man and left with the rest of the community, pulling Rigel along with him. He gave a last glance over his shoulder, catching a last look at the man, bloody hands holding what was left of his family.

-=+=-

“We can't stay here. I won't stay in this fucking place any longer.” Booker growled, hugging his arms tight around his body. He looked out the sliding glass doors, sucking in strained breaths through his clenched teeth and glaring at the city before him. This savior had turned to a death trap, and now Booker could hardly look at the place without feeling sick. He was stressed to say the least, pacing the bedroom while Rigel watched. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth he went, grumbling to himself all the while.

He'd been like this since the execution, in hysterics while Rigel did little more than watch him and keep his breathing in check. He'd kept down the emotions which threatened to overwhelm him, mostly from Booker's sake. Frustration and fear had gotten to him, sending him slowly spiraling down into this madness.

Every place they went, every person they met, it always ended like this. There was always that one drawback, that one little downside that ruined the entire plan for them. They could not, no matter what they do, find true peace. Not here, not out there in the dead ridden hell, not nowhere would find themselves somewhere they could be truly safe. At this point, Booker was beginning to wonder if death would be safer for them than this. They were nothing but cursed on this earth, always to find bad luck wherever they went. Maybe dead they would be granted the luck they were looking for.

“Did- did you even see what they did to that man, Rigel? Why aren't you afraid what they might do to you in those fucking labs of theirs!” Booker cried, throwing his hands into the air. Rigel gave Booker little more than a glance, frown deepening. Part of him wanted to say something, as if to reassure his partner he was more than worried, but he knew Booker didn't need any more stress. So he kept quiet, turning to look up at him. He shrugged that being all the answer he wanted to give.

“Rigel, come on, don't just look at me like that. Answer me.” Rigel had no time to properly reply before the front door clicked open, both men freezing in their place.

Linea came strolling in, hands crossed behind his back, following him was Sieno as he always seemed to be. Linea gave the room a quick look, ignoring the gaping men who inhabited it, turning towards the curtains of the glass doors. Without a word, he began digging up around the top of the curtains, finger's prodding at the left corner in search of something. With a grunt of victory, he pulled free what Booker could only guess was a small microphone, which Linea promptly ripped free and crushed under his boot.

Booker swallowed as he turned to look at him with a calm smile, expression threatening.

“You really must be careful with what you say. You never know, someone might be listening.” Linea tapped his ear, his smile fading into a grim frown. “You're lucky it was I who was listening, and not someone else. If anyone else had heard you you'd be the next one to lose their head and I'm sure we don't want that.”

“What do you want, Linea.” Booker growled, moving to stand next to Rigel, ready to protect him were he need to. He watched Sieno with a wary gaze, hand tightening into fists. After what he'd seen today, it was hard to trust a man who would take off another man's head without hesitation. Sieno gave him a glance, promptly bowing his head and staring at his feet. He looked ashamed, as if knowing without needing to be told why Booker was so wary of him. Even so, Booker didn't let him out of sights. Who knew, if Booker dare steal a glance away he might rush and break both their necks.

“You two and we two have a similar interest, we all want out. Unfortunately, once you're in Paradise there is no way out, at least not legally,” Linea glanced out the glass and stared at the wall, Sieno following his gaze. He gave a few hand motions and Booker wished dearly he knew sign language. For all he knew, Sieno could be plotting his death. Something about Linea's expression told him his thoughts were only paranoia, yet still he couldn't find any trust in the executioner.

“Sieno doesn't think we can trust you. Rigel maybe, but not you Booker,” Sieno narrow his gaze towards him, wearing a tight lipped frown. His cheeks were tinted red, and he almost looked sorry for himself. “So tell us,” Linea continued, pausing a seconds moment, “can we trust you?”

Booker wasn't quite sure what to say, none too sure if he could trust them. A murderer and the messenger of another murderer. It was difficult not to ask them the same question. Out of pride and out of fear he paused in consideration of whether he should answer or try and ask them back. Before a word that might have decided their fate could leave his lips, Rigel tugged lightly at his sleeve, at once having found his attention and nodding up at him.

It shouldn't have been, but that was enough for him. If Rigel trusted them, then for better or for worse he would as well.

“Yes, I swear.” He said with as much authority as he could muster. He was sure his voice was shaking, but he told no lie. Linea grunted, but never looked back from the window.

“Good, I'll take your word for it. Now, perhaps we can discuss plans.” Linea turned to the two, settling down on the edge of the second bed. He waved a hand for Booker to do the same, Sieno coming to sit next to him. He crossed his legs and set his hands on his knees, leaning slightly forwards.

“Mox will not allow anyone to leave his so called _'Paradise'_. The only ones allowed outside the wall at all are the guards, one of which he gives a key each day to the one door out, if we can get this key and wait till night when he is asleep, we may be able to get away unnoticed. Once we're out, Sieno and I will go our way and you two will go yours, simple as that.” Booker nodded as he took his place next to Rigel, crossing his arms.

“ _Simple as that?_ Doesn't sound all that simple.” Booker grumbled, grimacing.

“I can get the key easily, its hard to deny an order from the messenger of the great king himself. I'll be sure to take it when the day watch heads to sleep, and I'll have the night's watch delayed, tell them plans have changed and they get a day off. We'll have no one around except you two and us two. We open the door, get out, part ways, _simple as that_.”

His tone had raised, his annoyance clearer than Booker had ever seen it. He was an irritable man, but his emotions he was good at keeping in check. He'd hidden himself well, practices till no one could read his him. He had become expressionless, bland and the least defiant he could look. Seeing his emotions flare and flourish like this set Booker on edge, but there some comfort in knowing he was human, capable of human emotion. He seemed to notice himself, settling down at once and clearing his throat.

“Look, I've been planning this since the day Mox took me in and decided that I would be his pretty, little _bitch_. I know that this will work, trust me.” Linea's voice was stern and heavy, and Booker couldn't find it in himself to not believe him. He seemed so sure of himself, so positive that his plan would carry out one-hundred percent perfect. Booker knew the chances of that were slim, but if he was so sure then dammit he would take his word for it.

He gave a last nod, settling their plans. They could discuss dates later, but it was about time Linea got back to work. Were he to take too long, Mox would worry, and when that man worried, people got hurt. “Mox will be expecting me, we'll speak again later.” Linea said, bowing to the two before he left, Sieno on his heels. The executioner gave a wave of his hand before the door was carefully shut behind him. The silence that followed was heavy with unsurety, the partners shifting in their place at the discomfort the tension brought with it.

Left to their own, Booker sighed, eyes shifting to his shoes. He could imagine their demise now, could see him dragged from Rigel and thrown onto the stage. Could feel the thousands of pairs of eyes watching him, Rigel crying somewhere in the distance, clutching onto Sano and Cognitio as they tried to comfort him. Tried to tell him it'd be alright. He could see Sieno come up to his side, looking down at him sadly as he raised the axe high above his head. How the metal would glint, raised to the heavens and paused. The strikes would be hesitant, and therefore less deep, leaving Booker screaming for mercy, despite his best efforts, still left for dead. Instead of three it might take four or five hits before Booker's head rolled to the floor, his body being dropped after it.

Or perhaps Rigel's begging would win over the deadly dictator, and with the promise of obedience Booker was able to narrowly escape his death. Yet, that did not mean he wouldn't be punished. Held down by some of Mox's goons, his jaw would be forced open, and the great leader himself would be there standing over him, knife in hand. He'd be slow, careful of his work. He'd take great care of Booker's tongue as he cut if from his mouth. He'd be near to choking on his own blood before he would be let go, allowed to fall on the ground and vomit a mouthful of red onto the ground. He'd loose his speech and keep his life, left to sweep the city grounds as a janitor.

Booker shook the thoughts from his head, reprimanding himself for letting his mind wander as far as he had. He didn't want either option. Not for him. Not for Rigel.

“So, how do feel about this?” Booker asked his partner, shifting closer enough he could wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him over. Rigel sighed and leaned onto him, shaking his head.

“I don't know, it sounds like a chance.” He said, looking up at Booker. He met the gaze, a smile spreading only to disappear shortly afterwards. He turned back to the glass door, leaning a little heavier into Booker's shoulder. “A chance it better than none, right?” He asked, almost as if unsure of his thoughts.

“Right.” Was Booker replied. There was little else he could find to say besides.

-=+=-

The day of the heist, and already Booker was beyond nervous. Outside in the chill of the night, the fog heavy and limiting their visibility, Booker and Rigel waited. An icy wind howled in the night, sweeping by them, sending shivers quaking through their bodies. Rigel blew stay hair from his face, rubbing a hand across frozen lips. Winter was close to gripping the land, and soon they'd probably be buried under snow. Linea was late, and with his absence brought paranoia.

He was supposed to have met them by now, key in hand, Sieno following behind as he did. Instead, the two were left to wait, anxiously holding their breath, hoping that the two had not been caught. Alta Dio knew if they were it'd been all their heads on the chopping block, Mox probably doing the honors. Finding the room to be bugged had since set them on edge already, and like Linea had said, who knew who could be listening when they had discussed the plan. Who knew who could have over heard what they shouldn't have and reported to Mox.

Rigel grabbed at Booker's sleeve, pointing into the distance. “There! I think that's them!” He whispered excitedly, smiling up at his solemn partner. Booker looked out into the mist, a smile edging on his lips at the sight of the one eyed man and his silent companion. Linea slowly came walking from the wispy cloud that had settled inside the compound, around him the fog parting and swirling around his figure. He looked ghostly, and were not for the shining of a key in his fist, Booker would have taken him for a deathly omen. Linea lifted his hand, which in his grasp the key fell into the air, held by string, glinting in the spot lights that sat a top the wall.

Once close enough, Booker pat Linea upon the shoulder, admittedly a little harder than was necessary. The smaller man lurched forwards and laughed awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It wasn't as easy as I had hoped, but eventually I got the guards to leave for home.” Rigel moved out of his way as he went to the door, pushing the key into the lock. “At least getting the key was simple enough, guard had no problem handing it over-” Linea paused, his face falling as he found the key stuck.

He gave it another harder turn, yet still the lock did not budge. He rattled the door, an increasing feeling of panic making his face flush. Sweat began to swell on his forehead, leaving his skin glossy. Some of it began to drip down his cheek as he began more and more desperate to get the door open. Booker felt his stomach drop, his breath pausing in his throat. The Gods weren't allowed to do this to them, not when they were so close.

“It's... not working,” Linea breathed, Sieno coming to look over his shoulder with a curious gaze. Linea glanced back at him, the man shrugging in return, a frown upon his scarred lips. Booker pushed past them both, tearing the key from Linea's hand and trying the door himself. He hoped dearly that maybe the man was simply just not strong enough to open it, considering his twig-like arms.

That had to be it, _surely._

Yet it was true, no amount of pushing or pulling would unlock the door. It was shut and shut firm, and this key was being no help in freeing them from this hellish place. “What the fuck?” Booker growled, taking the key and turning it in his hand. The old style copper key glinted in his palm, polished and looking like it was cleaned often. This wasn't the key they needed, and something told Booker that this wasn't just some unfortunate mix up that had led them to be stuck with this useless decorative piece.

“Bravo, men. A good try, really it was,” Mox said in mocking tone, slowly clapping as he made his way to meet the four. How long he'd been hiding in the fog, watching them struggle with the door Booker could only guess was the entire show. He'd waited like an actor, just searching for his cue to come on stage and finish the performance. Linea turned to face him, horror stricken. Rigel mimicked his reaction, gasping, a hand coming to cover his mouth. Sieno and Booker were more disappointed than fearful, their so called _'easy'_ plan ruined. Booker nodded to himself, looking to the ground. It'd been a good run.

At the very least, he had a chance to kiss Rigel. He'd miss those soft lips everyday he would spent burning in hell.

“Like you said, Linea, my dear, you never know who might be listening.” Mox said, placing a hand on Linea's shoulder. The man refused to look up at him, turning his head away, looking sadly at his shoes. “I believe the key you seek is this one, dear.” Linea glanced up to find a far more modern key, their downfall teasing them with their own savior. Booker was sure that if they could see Mox's face the man would be smirking.

Linea sighed, gently taking the key from Mox's hand, turning it in his hand. “Have you come only to gloat about my failure, Mox? Seeing as you've come alone.” Linea sighed, finally looking up to meet the dark lines Mox considered his eyes. The expressionless face seemed to smirk, some play of the shadows looking too much like a jagged toothed mouth. Linea only glared at him, holding his gaze a long moment before spinning and tossing the key to Sieno, the man fumbling and only just managing to have it fall into his palm.

Mox growled, pushing Linea to the ground, racing the catch the silent man. Sieno glanced about himself, Booker about to tell him to run when instead he turned and found the ladder that lead up the wall. He quickly scrambled to start his climb, no thought of consequence passing through his thoughts. In the moment, following him up might have seemed a good idea.

Something drew Booker after him, following him up the rickety, wooden ladder. He knew deep down how bad an idea this was, how this would lead him to little but death, but somehow he still found himself climbing. Hand after hand, he went upwards, shaky breaths fogging in the air around him. His hands gripped the ladder tight, his pace quick, Mox having had the bright idea to come after them. Booker looked up into the sky, a droplet of water falling onto his forehead and rolling down his face. The rain began harshly, and a knot twisted in Booker's stomach. The wall was dangerous on even the brightest of days, who knew what the rain would do to it, slicking the cement.

Mox paused, a growl tearing violently from behind his mask. Booker looked down, still slowly making his way up, able to see an irritated Mox kicking at Linea. Rigel looked close to following, but Booker was quick to put an end to that idea.

“Don't! Stay down there, I'll join you when I can!” He called, Rigel reluctantly backing away from the ladder, watching his love climb with an expression of terror. Following Sieno he pulled himself up the wall, nearly losing his balance as he found his feet. The wall was maybe two feet wide, leaving only so much space to move. It's length made up for the width, Booker quickly scrambling after Sieno, who had already shimmied his way down the wall a good ways away from the ladder.

“Are you insane, you idiot? You could have gone any direction and you choose up!” Booker yelled over the drumming of rain, glaring at a still running Sieno. The silent man looked behind him and shrugged, his hair soaked and plastered to his cheeks, some having fallen into his face. Somehow, what with the rain and the wall and the fear, Sieno looked just as crazed as Mox might if he wore no mask to hide his expressions, or at least as close to Booker's mental image of him as one could get. The man stopped and pointed to Linea, the man running to meet them, panting. He glowered at the two, looking disgruntled and soaked as a grouchy cat.

“You just had to take the wall didn't you?” He growled at Sieno, the man flipping him off in return, having already heard the same complaint only moments ago. He made a few quick hand motions and Linea rolled his eyes. "Panicked or not, it was still stupid." He grumbled, snatching the key from his grasp, Sieno flinching away from his viper like reflexes. He seemed unhappy to have his key stolen from him, but he gave little complaint. Booker looked over at the two, his mouth tightening as he noticed the distinct lack of masked psycho dictators. With what space they had, the man disappearing did little make him feel better. Unless he'd fallen, there was no where else he could have escaped.

“Hey, where did Mox-?” Was all Booker could get out before an arm wrapped around Linea's neck, the man giving a strangled cry. His hand loosened on the key, the metal falling onto the wall. Booker scrambled to bend and pick it up, Mox pushing Linea to the side and following his example. His mask had slipped, and as two hands wrapped around the same key did it fall to the ground in front of them. It gave a clatter, and Booker paused to watch it shake before it fell still, eyes just off of staring at up him.

Glancing up, Booker stared directly at the dictator, wild, black eyes meeting his. His skin looked pure as snow, smooth and taut and sharp. Even his lips where white, pulled back in a violent snarl to reveal equally perfect teeth. Were he not looking at Booker with an expression of murder, he would have almost thought him beautiful in his own eerie way. His hair was stringy and dripping, most of the long locks having fallen over his eyes, making him look even more crazed. He resembled a ghost in a nice suit, and could Booker not hear his heavy, angry breathing, he would have called him dead.

Booker quickly shook from his trance, pulling the key from the mans grip and stumbling back, rolling onto his back. Mox roared and leaped after him, hands catching hold of his throat. Slammed to the ground, Booker gave a wheeze as Mox straddled his waist and leaned onto his neck. He felt the breath knocked from his lungs, yet unable to take a breath, he only gasp, straining to breathe.

“I've gotten real tired of you're meddling, Booker.” Mox hissed, a smile edging into his expression as he watched Booker struggle under his grasp. He was writhing, one hand trying desperately to pull at Mox's wrist, the other weakly pushing at his cheek in a effort to push him off. Mox ignored both attempts, smile widening as Booker's face turned a growing scarlet. “You've been a right pain in my ass, and I think it's time we finally do something about it.” Mox laughed to himself, eyes smoothing into a look of mock sympathy. Still, his smile held, the expression looked something equal to madness.

His smile fell when a weak fist met the back of his head. The strike barely moved him, but it definitely caught his attention. He turned his head slowly to glare at a horror stricken Linea, holding his fist close to his chest.

“Now, Linea, what was that for?” He asked innocently, cocking his head to the side. He let go of Booker's newly bruised throat, the man sucking in a much needed breath with a gasp and a round of hacking coughs. His vision cleared of any the black that had been encroaching upon his sight, and he looked up to find Mox advancing toward Linea, looking as calm and steady as a madman could.

“You've been quite a bad boy, now haven't you, Linea?” He asked, towering over the quivering man. Hands crossed behind his back, he followed Linea as he shifted till he stood back to the edge of the wall, Mox parallel to his stance. “I'd say it's about time I punish you, don't you think?” Linea swallowed, glancing behind himself. He looked back to Mox, mouth falling agape. He seemed to pause, pondering a seconds before bowing his head and allowing a whimper to escape him.

“I- I'm sorry.” Linea whispered over the wind, Mox's frown deepening as he sprung forwards, shoving the man backwards. Mox stumbled back, just a single step into the open air behind him. The world felt slowed down as Booker watched, Mox staring into the night's sky as he tumbled backwards. His eyes flickered to his partner, and like a viper did his hand shoot out at him. Mox grabbed hold of Linea's arm, the man lurching forwards with a cry.

“If I go, you're coming with me.” Mox hissed, hand gripping his wrist like a vice. Linea gave a shout as he and Mox tripped off the edge of the wall, Mox ready to drag them both to their death. He reached out a hand and took hold of the edge of the rain slick cement, finger's straining to keep their hold. It was a wonder he'd caught himself at all, and from the looks of it he wouldn't be able to keep that hold for long. His other hand lay trapped in Mox's grasp, the masked man dangling from him without any signs of fear.

“B-Booker! Help me up!” Linea yelled, his face pained and filled with worry. Booker stood frozen in his place, the rain pelting down upon his head as he looked down at the man. The scarf normally tied around his head had fallen off and where an eye should have been there was nothing but a gaping hole. Whoever had cut it out had done a good job, no scarring wound left by the removal. Looking at it, it was like he carried the abyss with him in that empty socket, the darkness of the night carried in that void.

Booker couldn't help his pause, watching helplessly as Linea gave a cracked cry of strained pain. Mox wriggled, shaking Linea loose, growling in frustration. He'd since embraced the idea of death, all as long as Linea followed him down. He was willing to loose his life, but he would never loose his bitch. If he were to suffer in hell he wanted Linea there with him to lessen the blow. Linea shut his eyes, sobbing as Mox gave another tug. Much to Booker's disgust, he watched the empty hole close and open again as Linea's eyes fluttered in his pained expression. A strained gasp left his lips, his grip shaking.

“Please, I'm slipping!” Linea tried again, voice pleading. Booker nodded and moved to help him, only to be blocked by Sieno who moved into his way. He looked back at him, and then gazed down at Linea and Mox a moment, as if hesitating. He turned his head up, not daring to look down at the two as he slowly pressing his foot to Linea's shaking fingers. Booker's mouth fell open as if to yell and stop him as Sieno crushed the hand under the toe of his shoe, Linea screaming in panic and fear alike.

“Sieno, please, don't-!” Linea cried, tears dripping down his cheeks to join the rain water. Sieno only pressed harder, face like stone as he shut his eyes, looking pained. Finally, Linea's hold on the wall wavered and his grip dropped, sending Linea screaming down the wall to his death, a silent Mox falling with him. Down they plunged, tumbling through the air till they hit the ground with a sharp crack.

Rigel, laying in wait for Booker's return still, nervously fiddling with his hands, jumped away from their bodies as they hit the ground, despite being barely close to them. He looked curiously over at the two, wincing at the sight of them. Linea had landed upon his head, his neck bent at a angle it shouldn't be able to bend, his face frozen in a fearful expression. Mox lay upon his stomach, face hidden, blood pooling around him.

Sieno watched them go down, giving a last nod at the thump of their landing before turning back to a stunned Booker. He signed something before realizing the man could not read what he spoke with his hands, scowling. He pointed to the direction of the ladder down, handing Booker the key to the door he was almost sure he'd had before Mox has struck him. Reluctantly, he took it back, staring the executioner down before turning to follow him back to the safety of the ground.

They were careful going down, hands gripping the worn, rickety wood tight. Already dangerous, in the rain is was death just waiting to grab them by the ankles and drag them to hell. Setting their feet to the ground, Booker wasted no time unlocking the door to the outside and stepped into the street. Something about being free, after all the work they'd put into it, felt that much sweeter than he'd expected. Sieno and Rigel following close behind him, Rigel keeping his distance from the other man. Booker turned to look back at them, Rigel coming to stand next to him, Sieno stopping, staring blankly at the lovers.

Booker looked to Rigel, then back to the silent executioner. “You lost your partner, not sure if you're looking to join us?” He asked, offering out a hand, looking to shake on a deal. Sieno scared him, but he was loyal when it benefited him, Booker could tell that much. It helped that he was good with an axe, as much as that also unsettled Booker.

Sieno smiled to him, but shook his head, declining the offer. He saluted to them instead, turning to walk into the empty field around them. Walkers were beginning to gather in the area, probably drawn by the smell of death, yet Sieno didn't flinch when they began to come towards him. He kept walking slowly closer, opening his arms as they scrambled to get close enough to sink their teeth into him. He looked back a moment with a solemn smile, before turning back to the dead.

Booker couldn't watch him any longer, and he gave Rigel's sleeve a quick tug and began to lead them down the road. He could hear the gristly sounds of zombies eating away at the fresh kill, yet never did he hear even a shout from Sieno. He couldn't say why he had done it, and if he was honest he didn't care to know. Whatever had been going through that man's mind was his own business, and Booker was happy to keep it that way. Rigel sighed besides him, looking down at his feet as they walked.

They had far to go, and even littler to their name than they had even just a week or so ago, but damn the world if that was going to slow them down. Booker wrapped an arm around Rigel's shoulder, the shorter of the two leaning onto him. Behind them the moon rose, the city they'd just left waking to find the destruction Booker and Rigel had left. A dog barked somewhere, zombies growling behind them as the rain continued to pour. They'd seen much in one short night, and if that was not going to discourage them from their journey then nothing this world could throw at them would.

-=+=-

They'd been walking for only days, but it felt more like centuries.

The escape from the so called _Paradise_ had taken its toll, leaving the two drained of both supplies and energy. Then again, what part of this hell hadn't fucked them over yet. They'd been racing from walkers all their walking, no shelter in sight. They'd bunked with a one family for a night, another night having slept in the back of another grounds van. They could find temporary stays, but no where would they call their own.

Tired and starving ,Booker began to wonder if maybe he'd already died and instead of heaven he'd been sent by whatever God was watching down here to this fake earth to _suffer_. He wouldn't put it past the Gods to punish him like this; forever tired, forever fighting, forever doomed no matter what they did or tried. No matter how hard they fought, they were to fated to die in some horrendous way, Booker could feel it in his bones.

But what had he done to deserve this? What had he done to be trapped in this place? More importantly, what did a man like Rigel do to deserve this fate? To wander alongside a man like him, his companion till the sweet or bitter end of his damned life. He was a perfect man, holy even, and nothing he'd heard him say or do could justify the reason for him having been sent to a man like Booker was. Rigel deserved better than him.

“Booker, you alright?” Rigel asked, skipping forwards a couple steps till he had caught up with him, walking next to him. Booker didn't want to say no, but he certainly couldn't say yes. He gave him a tight lipped smile and nodded, not trusting his voice to lie well as he needed it to, what with him already straining to look better than he knew he was. He could tell Rigel didn't believe him, but the man didn't pry and Booker didn't say otherwise.

He felt Rigel get closer, cautiously putting an arm around his shoulder and pulling him close. He had to walk awkwardly to keep up, Booker too tall for his arm to sit comfortable, but it was an endearing attempt to sooth his foul mood. Booker gave him a look and Rigel winced as if expecting a strike of some kind. When it never came, he perked up a little in surprise and then smiled. It was a wary thing, but bright as they always were anyways. He always had such a nice smile.

Booker turned his gaze back to the road and froze, pulling Rigel to a stop along with him. A walker with its back turned to them was grumbling softly, hunched over what looked to be a fresh kill. Booker cursed quietly and pulled the handgun out of his belt, the one weapon he'd been able to find in their search for a safe haven, pointing it at the creature. Shooting it would draw attention to themselves and the fact they had a weapon, but he'd damn well do it if he needed.

It must have heard him, because it gurgled and lifted its heavy head, looking back him. It slowly turned to face them and Booker's breath hitched in his throat at the sight of its face.

“ _Oh shit._ ” He breathed, taking steps away from Rigel to move towards the growling walker. Marred as his body was, Booker could not mistake him for anyone but their long past partner. Cabot, body fly covered and rotting, most of the meat on his left arm gone, one eye fallen and dangling from its socket, was crouched over a body he must have been eating. He stared at Booker with a wide, white eye that looked blind, but still seemed to recognize.

Booker circled him carefully and he hissed a warning at the motion. Dangerous as he was, he didn't seem keen to leave his meal, even if it meant letting this fresh meat go. Booker took notice he could probably sneak around him if he wished, leave this traitor and let him live the fate he damn well deserved.

Slowly, Booker walked around him, handgun quivering in his hand. Of all the people he'd thought he'd find dead in the streets, Cabot was not one of them.

“ _Where are your friends now?”_ Booker thought smugly, a smile creeping upon his lips. It was quick to disappear once he'd caught sight of the body under his once thought good partner, the second recognizable face making him nauseous. He felt light headed, and his grip on his weapon wavered, the handgun nearly slipping from his fingers.

He hadn't been eating it, but protecting it. Thatcher, dead body still fresh and mostly clean, lay under his lovers. His skin was no longer than young, pale pink, but was still near unbroken and looked like he'd died none too long ago. There were no bite marks, no cuts; just soft, pale skin. Booker wondered absently if they'd found their friends, or if their friends had found them as snarling corpses.

There was a bullet wound through the front of Thatcher's forehead and the gun at Cabot's feet made Booker guess he must have been the one to deliver the death. He couldn't imagine how it must have been, to kill the man you'd lived your life with and loved with all your heart. The very man you'd spent so much time protecting only to have them die by your own hand. He could hardly imagine himself having to kill Rigel, thank the Gods he was immune.

There must have only been only one bullet, for Cabot was still here, watching over the corpse of his lover like an undead bodyguard. He wondered if Thatcher had asked Cabot to do it, or if Cabot had promised him ' _he'd be there soon'_ and let his lover have the easy way out. _No_ , this was no time for questions like that. There were too many questions that would never need an answer. Booker wasn't going to ask them.

He could feel tears brimming against his eyes, something about the way Cabot was looking at him with that one dead eye. Something about the way he seemed to still be there, even if just a little. Like his body had turned but his restless spirit wouldn't leave just yet. Like this was his punishment for what he'd done to Thatcher, or what he'd done to them perhaps. Maybe he needed their forgiveness to get out of this world, their mercy before his soul could rest.

He almost looked fearful, or sorrowful, or an mixture of the two. It felt as if he knew what he'd done. He knew who'd he'd hurt. He knew it was Booker watching him. He knew everything even as a dead man laying over his lover's body.

Cabot grumbled deep in his broken chest and tilted his head, blinking slowly. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but all that came out was a low whine. The pitiful sound was like that of a sad puppy, the closest to a sob Booker guessed he could get. He looked broken, both physically and mentally. How a face as damaged as his could portray his thoughts as well Booker couldn't guess, but looking at him he knew what he was feeling.

Rigel had since come around, gently putting a hand back on Booker's shoulder.

“Is it,” He asked softly, voice wavering. “Oh God have mercy, it's him isn't it?” Rigel gave a choked sob, and Cabot bowed his head slightly. _He knew_. Dead, but somehow still Booker could tell he knew.

Booker could feel warm tears start to run down his cheeks and he didn't bother trying to stop them. Cabot glanced up at him and this time it was Booker who knew. He knew what he had to do, as much as he didn't want to. He hated this man and he tried to remind himself of that. He hated everything he'd done to him, _to them._ Cabot probably deserved this. This was what God intended for him, to punish him for his sins. Yet even still, Booker couldn't let him suffer, not like this.

Trapped in a body he didn't want. Away from the man he loved. That was more than he ever deserved. More than anyone ever deserved. If anything, all he needed was a stern talking to and maybe a slap across the face, but not something as severe as this. Booker wasn't going to risk it now, figuring the walker part of him could come out at any time and take off his hand, but a strike was a tempting thought somewhere in the back of his mind.

Booker looked down at his weapon and slowly, shakily raised it again. He pointed it at Cabot, staring at him down the barrel. He couldn't help but hesitate, unable to pull the trigger right away.

Cabot gave him a confused glance, eye expressionless but pleading all the same, a softly hissing coming from what was left of his lungs. This time it wasn't in fear, it was a begging sound. He _wanted_ this.

Booker shook his head and took a shaking breath, trying to stead himself best he could. Cabot inched a step closer, as if trying to urge him on, hissing just a little louder, in case he maybe hadn't heard him the first time.

Rigel wiped at his eyes, sniffling, but said not a word. He turned away and hid his eyes in his sleeve, whimpering. He squeezed Booker's shoulder with his other hand, but could not muster to courage to give any encouragement. He couldn't bring himself to tell Booker to kill the man who had saved him and put an old friend to rest. He _couldn't_ do that.

Cabot hissed once more, this time almost violently, voice full of rage. He wanted it, and Booker was teasing him with it. He _needed_ this. He needed Booker to do this for him. Even after all he'd done to them, they were some of the few he could trust to save him. He had to hope they knew this, understood what he wanted. He had to hope they would have mercy on his tortured soul.

“I'm sorry.” Booker whispered, swallowing hard. The shot rang in the streets as Cabot's brain splattering upon the road behind him. He screamed in pain, the sound a cracking hiss like screech. He stumbled backwards a few wavering steps and with a last growl fell on top of Thatcher, bleeding out onto his corps.

Booker took a deep breath, looking at the two lovers with hard eyes. He made a silent vow not to end up like them, he wasn't going to lose this battle.

He was never going to be Cabot.

“Come on, let's leave them, before the walkers come.” He said finally, turning back to Rigel. He seemed hesitant, but nodded in agreement, sending the two a last glance before turning to follow Booker. They moved slowly, trudging down the road with grief weighing down their boots, all quiet despite the sound of shambling zombies behind them, coming to feast on what was left of the lovers.

The wind seemed to have picked up and now whistled past them, carrying leaves along its chilled current. Booker swore he could hear Cabot's voice on the air, faintly breathing a silent thanks. In that instance, he knew.

-=+=-

What felt like a week, maybe even two, passed them by without much impact. The road had slowly begun to lead deeper and deeper into another forest, and Booker took the opportunity to do some hunting. He'd scavenged some old wire off a gas empty car, as well as an old rusted pipe, using it to try and catch the occasional rabbit or whatever other animal were unlucky to get close to him. His luck was low, but any food was a feast to them at this point. They managed to make fire, cook what they caught so not to catch some other deadly disease.

Being so close to the woods, they had begun to hear The Dogs. They howled and screamed and chanted to themselves, travelling wherever Rigel and Booker walked. Rigel swore he saw them some nights, watching from the trees, eyes glowing red in the moonlight. He'd seen them watching him, hunting them like cautious wolves. He woken Booker frightened for their lives that night, yet when he'd searched, there had been not a single man or beast anywhere near.

Since then, they slept light, and they slept close. Booker held Rigel as tight as he could, knowing that any night might be their last. You knew time was short when the Dogs were watching. Waiting. Ready to strike at any moment they saw fit.

As the days past, their care for the other grew. Booker could not deny now that he loved Rigel, and Rigel any chance he could find would remind Booker he felt much the same. Sometime when they were walking, or before they were about to fall asleep, Booker would feel a smile upon his lips as Rigel would whisper to him how much he loved him. With a kiss to his forehead he would return the words, holding him just that extra bit closer. They had little time to show their affections past sleeping, needing always to be on guard, having no time for distraction. Yet still, at least knowing that their love was shared was enough to keep spirits high. They'd never been more hopeful, Rigel a strong believer that God would save them because they knew how much the two loved.

Booker was no believer in God, but he encouraged the thoughts no matter. Rigel of all people, needed to keep his hopes up, and if his faith would help him then Booker would make sure he kept believing. Booker was doing better, spending less time wallowing in his sorrow. He tried to keep his mind from wandering, instead focusing on Rigel and keeping him safe. He kept himself distracted, putting all his time and effort into shielding Rigel from as much of the death and destruction as he could. He wanted Rigel to be as innocent as he could still be, and he knew that the man has seen enough already that his efforts were futile, but he wasn't going to let that stop him.

Walking the lonely forest road, still following the highway, Booker sighed. His legs had begun to ache, his lungs burning, yet never did he slow. They had to keep moving, lest they were to let the walkers catch up with them. They'd seen almost none of the wandering dead as they moved within the forests, and at the least Booker was grateful for that.

Rigel perked up from his sleep state, skipping before Booker to pause and stare out at the road. A body lay face down on the cement, unmoving, blood surrounding their figure. Booker grunted at the sight of it, taking a notice to the blood in the bodies hair.

“Dead, looks shot through the back of the head. They'll be safe to go around.” Booker assured, waiting for Rigel to lead before following. They slowed as they passed, staring down at the body. Booker squinted and stopped, looking at the mess of black hair, shiny with blood. It looked extremely fresh, but nowhere could he find a wound in the back of this person's head. He knelt down to them, gently moving away the hair to reveal clean, unbroken scalp.

Rigel gave a shout and before Booker had a chance to react was the body and upon him. Through his confusion could he hear the hooting and shouting of The Dogs, and then did he realize he'd wandered right into one of their traps. The body had since pushed him down, smirking down at him. He could see what looked to be a bat in their hand, a sick a chuckle coming from above him.

“Light's out.” Was the last he heard before the world grew dark, a bash to the head all it took. He slept, and in his dreams he swore he must be dead. He didn't expect to wake, and he would have almost been glad if he hadn't. They'd had a good run, after all. It was about time he was laid to rest. Of course, as per usual, fate was not so kind.

-=+=-

“Wakey, wakey, its time to get up,” A voice cooed softly in Booker's ear, trying to rouse him from his forced unconscious sleep. He grumbled, his eyes lifting open a short moment only to quickly shut again. He didn't feel rested enough, he needed some more time. _'Five more minutes'_ he tried to reply, but instead his words came out as an incoherent mumbled slur. He felt a warm breath wash over his neck, the feeling making him twitch. He have a drowsy giggle as something brushed his cheek, something that felt a lot like hair.

“Come on. I said,” Booker gave a shout as someone bit down harshly into the junction where his shoulder met his neck, no doubt breaking skin. “ _Wake up._ ” The voice growled into his skin, tearing at the wound as if trying to break off a piece of him. The teeth felt filled sharp, the points ripping into him like a walker.

Booker's eyes came flying open, fearing the worst. He'd fallen asleep who knows where and must have been found by a walker, he was being eaten, he was going to die by being ripped apart alive. This was everything he'd been trying to avoid, and now he'd die like this, his guts spilled out onto the floor while one of them tore his head from his shoulder. Yet somewhere his rational thoughts spoke and reminded him that walkers couldn't talk, and they weren't ever this gentle. He'd be dead by now if this was a walker, seeing as they tended to travel in packs.

“I'm awake, get off, you freak!” Booker roared, trying to shake free of this voice's hold. It wasn't the voice keeping him down he soon found; his hands tied to a tree above his head. Thick yellow rope were coiled around his wrists and the truck of the tree behind him, binding his hands above his head. He gave them a quick struggle, trying yet unable to break free. They were tough, and he had his hands full.

The voice had since stopped biting him, instead licking rather obscenely at the wound. He would have almost called it an apologetic gesture, were he not so unnerved. Warm breath washed over the wound, a tongue digging into the marks, seeking the copper taste of his blood. It stung, enough to make him squirm in an attempt to rid himself of this intruder. Booker cleared his throat in annoyance and disturbance and felt the voice pause. It hummed in though, but finally climbing off him.

The man as Booker now saw, smiled to him, teeth stained a pale red. It took him a moment, but Booker knew this man, his eyes growing wide at the realization. He knew that smile anywhere, and damn him to the void if he was ever to forget those rare, stunning violet eyes.

“ _Dock?_ ” He asked, squinting, as if his eyes were deceiving him. It must be an illusion, it couldn't really be. What were the chances of seeing Dock of all people, and _here_.

“Its been a long time hasn't it, Booker?” Dock replied, licking his teeth with a smirk.

The last time Booker had seen Dock was when he had kicked him out of the house. He'd had enough of the manipulative asshole, and he wasn't going to let him keep controlling him and forcing him into this wretched relationship he'd been so oblivious to. He was finished with him, and had never wished to see him again if that were possible. Till today, he thought it had been.

Dock had been a good lover while Booker had still been blind to his abusive tendencies, but the moment he'd really begun to notice these habits did he become more aware of what Dock really was. When he'd wanted Booker he'd wanted him then and there, no matter the man's own wishes, and when he couldn't have him he was nothing but wicked and sharp tongued. Dare Booker point out Dock's verbal or even physical lashings did he sooth his lover's anger with fake tears and begging apologizes. He'd numbed Booker's mind with short lived moments of care used to cover whatever scar had been left by the previous night, and Booker had fallen into his trap too many times for too long.

It'd been months of, _“I'm sorry.”_ and _“I still love you.”_ masking bruises and screaming until Booker had finally been rudely awoken from Dock's lulling manipulation.

It had been a usual days end, with Booker sluggishly wandering into the apartment he shared with his oh so lovely boyfriend upon a gloomy, stormy afternoon. The lucky difference with this day had been his early dismal from work, which he had gladly taken, excited to spent an extra few hours with Dock. Tugging the muddy, rain soaked boots off his feet to leave at the door, so not the track mud into the house, he'd been puzzled by the lack of usual greeting. There was not hello; no quick kiss or gentle smile sent his way. He was alone, left wondering where his lover was hiding from him.

The door had been unlocked, leaving him knowing that Dock had not left. It was a muffled cry of pleasure which had alerted him, sending a shiver down his spine. The sound had not sounded like Dock, and Booker's cheeks grew pale as he slowly stepped towards the bedroom. Pushing the door opened, he'd been shocked and disgusted by the sight of Dock, _his_ lover, writhing happily under the man he knew as Vaat.

He'd been told that the relationship with Vaat was a thing of the past, and catching the man he'd thought he loved in bed with him was the last straw. That was the last lie he would take. That had been the end of _them._ Booker was finished telling himself Dock didn't really mean the things he said; that the scratches, bruises and welts were just his own fault. The sex wasn't even worth turning a blind eye anymore.

He could still remember the threat and that desperate cracked voice which had called it:

“ _You'll regret this, Booker! Someday you'll_ need _me again and then you'll_ regret! _”_

He hadn't believed him, he still didn't really believe him, yet it seemed he may need him now. Booker shook his head in disbelief, Dock running a hand softly down his cheek.

“No, you're- you're one of _them_ now?” Booker could hardly believe it, yet somewhere deep down he knew he should have expected it. Maybe it was all the biting Dock did when they fucked, or the way he'd been prone to _want_ to break skin, or his tendency to seem like he wasn't just kissing but _tasting_ , but somehow Booker almost expected no less than he become a cannibal. He'd always been a carnivorous sort of lover after all.

Dock laughed, hand at Booker's cheek shifting to the top of his head, gently playing with his hair. “If by _them_ , you mean a quote, unquote _'Forest Mutt'_ , then yes.” Booker wouldn't say he liked this situation, but the way Dock was massaging his scalp was near soothing. If he hadn't known that Dock now ate people, it might have even relaxed him.

“It really is nice to see you after all these years,” Dock purred, leaning closer to Booker's face. “I'd never admit it to anyone else, but I think I've missed you.” Their faces were too near to touching, Dock making it clear what he sought. Dock's lips brushed his and Booker shook away the shock, flinching away from the man.

“Get away from me.” Booker growled, turning away from his captor. Dock's flirtatious smile faded, and the hand in his hair grew tight.

“Come now, Booker. Haven't you missed this like I have?” Dock asked, turning Booker to face him with a gentle hand on his cheek. He opened his mouth to answer but no sound came out as Dock's other hand let go of his hair and moved to his crotch. he pressed the heel of his palm up against him through his jeans, softly grinding against him. Dock kissed at his jaw, mouth moving to his ear.

“Haven't you missed _this?_ ” He whispered, biting softly at the shell of Booker's ear.

“No, I haven't missed _'this'_ ,” Booker said in slightly strained, mocking tone, struggling to get Dock away from him. “I haven't missed you, or any part of you since you left. In fact, I think I've been much happier having you gone.” Dock went still, his teeth digging painfully into Booker's ear, their grip ever tightening. Booker winced, trying to lean away from Dock and the vice that was his mouth. In return, the man tugged back, snarling loudly.

Booker had been right, these people were no longer human. They were animals, wild creatures with no self-discipline. At least Dock still wore clothing.

“Dock, let go of me.” Booker said calmly, fear creeping into his tone. He wasn't scared of Dock per say, more so the though of losing an ear, which seemed more likely the worse Dock's mood became. He waited, patiently as one could when you're ex was threatening to tear off your ear with their teeth. Slowly, reluctantly, Dock relaxed and released his hold. Booker could feel blood running down his ear, a line of the warm liquid falling down his neck. Dock licked his lips and grunted, sitting back on his heels.

“Sorry, I suppose I get a little carried away sometimes.” Dock said, looking away, scowling.

“A little? You nearly took my ear off-”

“ _Shut up, Booker_. Keep talking like that and I'll take both ears and your pathetic little dick.” He snarled, hand snaking its way around Booker's throat. It never grew tight, yet still it touched his skin and lay threatening. Booker swallowed, looking up at Dock with a tight lipped frown.

“Let go of me, Dock. Untie me and let me go.” He said with as much authority as one could keep tied to a tree with a hand at their throat. Dock snorted and couldn't help a laugh. His hands came to find Booker's cheeks, squeezing them upwards in a sort of childish amusement.

“Oh, Booker you always were good for a laugh. I doubt you really want to leave so soon, we haven't even had dinner yet,” Dock said with a soft, near kind smirk. The expression was quick to grow darker as he smiled a wide, pink toothed grin. “You wouldn't want to miss the feasting of that plump little delight you brought with you, now would you, Booker?”

He froze, his jaw clenching shut at the mention of Rigel. He had almost forgotten about his partner, the man he'd found himself falling for. Not yet, he couldn't lose him, not to Dock.

“ _Don't you fucking touch him._ ” Booker hissed though clenched teeth, glaring at Dock from his grasp. Dock chuckled, gently patting Booker's cheek.

“And why would you care? I _know_ you, Booker, and you don't just _care_ about others.” Dock leaned in close, “You never did care for me, after all.” Booker didn't say a word, only glared silently at the man in violet. Dock seemed to consider him, pondering before he struck an idea.

“ _Unless,_ ” He paused to laugh himself breathless, wiping at fake tears. “My, My, Booker do we have a little crush on our dinner?” Dock teased, sneering down at him. Booker would feel the blush beginning to bloom, trying to hide it by turning away with a grunt. As expected, Dock still saw, and fell into another fit of sick laughter.

“How glorious, a man like him was the one to woo you,” He snickered. Near instantly, his smiling faded and his tone grew dark, words filled with venom. “Instead _of me._ ” He growled, digging claw like nails into Booker's cheeks, leaving red crescents in his skin. Booker tried to pull away, hissing as Dock continued to dig his fingers deeper and deeper into his soft flesh, drawing blood.

“You chose that little bitch, _over me._ ” Dock hissed, sounding something like a snake preparing to strike. Booker was worried that those blood stained canines would somehow turned to fangs, sending venom into his systems. The man might as well been a purple viper, so ready to kill.

“Well now, perhaps if I get rid of him, you'll have nothing but _I_ to love.” Dock plotted out loud, Booker growing tense under his hands. “ _Yes,_ once he's out of the way, you'll have no one, Booker,” Dock got close, lips brushing Booker's yet not claiming him. “No one, _but me._ ”

It seemed like some sick nightmare, like the premise for a bad romance movie perhaps. The ex-lover tries to kill the current so they can win back the man of their dreams. Booker was certain he had heard this story before. Dock backed away from Booker, slowly crawling back into the forest. He seemed done playing with him, instead wandering to do whatever The Dogs did for entertainment besides torture.

“You feel thinner, I'm sure you don't want to wait till dinner, I'll have someone bring you something to eat.” And with that, he was gone, disappeared into the brush. Booker lay still, heart thumping in his ears. His throat felt tight, his worry for what Dock might do to Rigel swimming in his thoughts.

Dock was cruel, and knowing how much he loved to make Booker suffered he could only guess what he would do to his new found love. He'd probably be forced to watch as Rigel was carved alive. The joyous look on Dock's face as he cut into the man and pulled free whatever bloody bit of innard he could grab would be sickening. They'd be laughing and hooting all around him, Dock's little band of cannibals, their mouths watering at the idea of the fresh, still sobbing feast before them.

Booker couldn't think about it much longer without really upsetting himself. He took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block the nightmare from his mind. He was almost grateful when something rustled in the brush, a hulking figure pushing away branches as he stumbled into the clearing. In his hand carried a can of what looked to be beans and a spoon, which Booker guessed was for him.

The man, after picking a few leaves and twigs from his hair and clothing, looked over at Booker with wide, amber eyes. He smiled, the look far more sincere than Dock's ever had been. “Hey, Dock told me to bring you something to eat.” The man said, slowly making his way over to Booker. He was almost sure he knew him, Booker trying to place a name to the face and failing. “Not sure how he expects you to eat though, with you being tied up and all.”

He laughed, the sound not particularly loud but booming, probably scaring any animal who might be near. He sat down cross legged in front of Booker and picked at the tab built into the top of the can, fumbling to get it open. Booker watched him as he stared at it with immense concentration, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, even so still unable to finger it open.

“Do you need help?” Booker grumbled, feeling his stomach rumble at the thought of food. It been too long since he'd had anything this close to real nourishment, and at this point he was getting desperate. The man looked up at him and tilted his head. He blinked as if considering the offer, but before he had a chance to say a thing did a smirk grow upon his lips.

He chuckled, shaking his head and getting back to his attempts. “Nice try, but I'm not untying you, I'll get it open on my own thanks.” After another few moments of struggle, with a faint _click_ did the tab finally come free, the man giving a huff of triumph as he peeled off the tin lid. Throwing it into the bushes, he found his spoon and dug out a scoop of the cold beans, offering it to Booker by pushing the spoon at his lips.

Part of him wanted to protest and demand to be untied so he could feed himself, but his stomach and desire for anything to eat kept him quiet. It was mildly humiliating, but he was hungry enough he couldn't care. He compliantly opened his mouth, the taste of real food on his tongue pure luxury. He almost moaned, so in love with the feeling of actual food, cold or not, that he was pulled into his own little moment of blissful obliviousness. He wasn't tied to any tree, he wasn't living a world mostly populated by the dead and insane, he was in pure, luxurious heaven.

The man chuckled again, breaking Booker's moment of rapture. He looked back up at him, frowning until he offered him another spoonful, which he took with a pout.

“Name's Vaat, by the way.” He said quietly, looking to Booker as if expecting a name in return. Booker nearly choked on his mouth full, quickly swallowing it down so he could take a breath and cough. Vaat tilted his head, a frown edging on his lips at the reaction.

“Uhh, I'm, John.” Booker said quickly, clearing his throat. Vaat looked like he didn't believe him, and Booker felt sweat begin to stain his forehead. He tried to look calmer when Vaat shrugged and gave him another spoonful.

“John, eh? Bit plain, but hey, who am I to judge.” Vaat said, string the contents of the can a bit. Booker thanked Vaat's calm demeanor, knowing anyone else would have probably accused him of lying. Knowing these people, they would have accused him of lying and then eaten him for doing so.

Even being Dock's lover and probably his slave, Booker couldn't say he disliked Vaat. He was friendly, and that was a nice change from the world of assholes he'd grown used to. He was relaxed, acting as if this were a normal occurrence upon any other day. It was a welcoming sight, finding someone who didn't seem so insane. Booker wasn't sure why he blurted it out, but it was too late to stop himself when he asked: “You have a lover, Vaat?”

The man's head jerked upwards, his face blooming with a faint pink blush. Booker himself blushed, looking shyly at the ground. He mentally kicked himself for asking something so personal to a man he hardly knew, still unsure why his subconscious had made him do it. Vaat rubbed at the back of his neck, a sheepish smile playing at his lips. He laughed awkwardly, looking down at his side.

“Yeah, I do.” He said softly, glancing up at Booker. “You?”

Booker nodded, giving his own unsure laugh. “I do indeed, though I hear they're going to eat him tonight, can't say I'm excited.” Vaat frowned, poking at the inside of the near empty can awkwardly.

“Oh.” Was all Vaat replied, looking down at himself. Booker nodded, shifting at the tension he'd caused. It'd been a stupid question from the beginning, he'd known it. Vaat huffed, setting down the can and standing, brushing himself off. “Well, give me a moment, maybe I can help you out.” Vaat said with a short smile, turning and leaving Booker alone.

He blinked, it taking Booker a moment to realize that Vaat was most likely looking to speak with Dock and have them both freed. Perhaps his subconscious had actually done something smart, unlike he'd first suspected. Maybe this would actually work. Maybe, for once, he'd done something right.

He'd lay waiting, unable to do much as he was. He looked about the forest, watching for animals and cannibals. He blew at a leaf which had landed near his side, and kicked at the empty can Vaat had left till it was out of his reach. The forest wasn't exactly built to provide Booker entertainment, and sooner rather then later did he run out of things to do besides think.

Booker lay praying, begging the lord he didn't quite believe in that Vaat might find a way to convince Dock to let them leave. Having known Dock, he knew chances were slim, the odds against him as they tended to be. Dock was not easily swayed by much, and his desire for Booker would make things that much more difficult. If Vaat could find something to promise him that could outweigh his longing for Booker, then perhaps he and Rigel could walk out the forest unscathed.

How well Vaat's negotiating skills were Booker could not say, but Rigel's sake he hoped they were great. He glanced up from his quite thoughts, the bushes rustling to his front. He looked up at Vaat with hopeful eyes, staring at him as he approached. He knelt down in front of him, his gaze hard and purposely avoiding Booker's. He reached up and took a rough hold on his wrists, working to undo the knots that kept him bound.

“Vaat? How did it go?” Booker asked, trying to keep any nervousness from his tone. Vaat gave him a short, dark glance before tugging at the ropes, having them come undone. Booker took back his hands and rubbed at the red indents in his wrists, not daring to move with Vaat still over top him, unwinding the rope from the tree trunk. Booker opened his mouth to speak when Vaat's cut him off.

“I don't like liars, _Booker_.” He growled, glowering down at the helpless captive. “I talked to Dock, he told me who you really are he did. Not sure what you thought hiding a name would do you, just because you loved Dock before I did wouldn't have made me like you any less.”

Booker bowed his head, allowing Vaat to take his hands and tie them back in front of him.

“Vaat, please, listen to me,” Booker tried, becoming more and more desperate as Vaat began to drag him down towards the feeding grounds.

“I'm done listening to you, Booker. I don't listen to liars.” He grumbled back, giving the rope a sharp tug. Booker fell forwards, falling to his knees. Vaat gave him another tug when he refused to stand back up, looking up at him pleadingly. “I might just have to carry you, if you're not going to come willingly.”

“Dock only wants to kill Rigel to get to me!” Booker blurted quickly, hoping he'd not believe that was also a lie. That seemed to catch Vaat's attention, the man narrowing his gaze. He looked over his shoulder, as if making sure no one was watching before he knelt in front of Booker. He pressed his face into his, snarling.

“Dock loves me, Booker. He wouldn't do that, not for some past lover like you.”

“He cheated on me with you didn't he? Who says he wouldn't do something like that again? And he told me before he sent you, he _told_ me, Vaat.” Booker hissed, worried were he to speak too loud would someone hear. Vaat seemed to consider it, his expression growing more harsh. It seemed Booker was not the only one knowing of Dock's usual ways, and he hoped he could use that to his advantage.

“No, no he wouldn't do that.”

“Dock doesn't care about you, Vaat, he only cares about himself. He likes your body, but he doesn't love you.”

“ _Shut up, Booker._ ” Vaat snapped, a hand settling around his throat in warning. Booker swallowed, Vaat's look of rage making him shift in discomfort. Booker looked up at the man, watching him grind his teeth as he pondered Booker's words.

“Vaat, please, you know it's true. Please, I don't want to lose Rigel.” Booker begged, despite the hand around his neck. When Vaat's hand didn't tighten, he continued. “If Rigel is killed tonight, Dock will think he's won. He'll forget you, instead using me, neither of us want that I'm sure.” The larger man's eyes traveled down, staring at his feet. Eventually, he nodded. Booker almost wanted to hoot in victory. Were he to not know any better, he might have just.

“How do you want to get your boyfriend free then? I'll do what I can.” Vaat mumbled, still looking somehow irritated. Booker brushed it off as annoyance at the truth of Dock's ways and gave Vaat a hesitant smile. The man did not return it, but he took the rope that bound Booker's hands together and untied them, coiling the loose rope around his hand. He seemed unsure, but Booker guessed he had convinced him enough at least.

“Well, all I need to do is get Rigel out and him and I can run out of here. Maybe you could try and distract Dock?” Vaat rubbed at his beard, shaking his head.

“I could try? But you don't seem to know how feasts work.” He crossed his arms, sighing. “The main course it tied and teased before Dock and the others go at them. By the time we get there, Rigel will have probably already be at the stage which Dock makes of show of him before they begin.” Vaat pinched at the bridge of his nose, chewing at his lip, deep in thought.

Alright, so I can, well, maybe I could pretend our rival pack was advancing? That'd probably send Dock and the rest of them into a frenzy and they'd be out of your hair for awhile. I can, I can trust you with this as well, to get your boyfriend untied,” Vaat said, pulling a hunting knife from its sheath, the weapon hidden under his coat. Booker stared at it a moment, trying to figure out how he'd never noticed it till now. He gingerly took it from Vaat, turning it in his hand. He looked up and the man and smiled, giving him his silent thanks.

Vaat huffed, looking a little more than a bit disgruntled about the whole situation. “Right, be careful you keep that hidden till I sound the alarm. It was a gift from Dock, he'll know it from a mile away.” Booker nodded, pushing it into his back pocket. He felt it tear through the bottom of the pocket, leaving a hole were the blade poked through. He knew this was probably a great way to stab himself with his own borrowed weapon, but there were little others places he could safely hide it.

That seemed to satisfy Vaat, who took the role again and loosely wrapped it back around Booker's wrists, handing him the dangling end. “Here, we'll just make it look like you're tied, this way you can easily get yourself undone when we all run off.” Vaat mumbled, more to himself than to Booker. Even still, Booker nodded, gripping the rope tight.

His palm were clammy, he could feel, and it did nothing to help his nerves. There was always that distant doubt, that anxiety that gnawed at the back of Booker's mind. It questioned him and his plan, questioned his success and hope. He pushed it away, shaking his head. Better have faith in himself at a time like this. Were he to look too nervous, Dock may notice, and his and Vaat's plan would be done before it'd even begun.

Without a word of warning, Vaat leaned over and hook an arm under his legs, pulling him up into his grasp. The man gave a short, confused struggle, yet his efforts with in vain. Despite his little fight, he managed to end up in Vaat's arms, held bridal style. He glared up at the man, Vaat smiling down at his scowl.

“Forgive me, it's part of the plan.” Vaat assured, still looking a little more smug for Booker's likeness. He allowed it anyways, figuring if Vaat knew what he was doing he would let him take control.

-=+=-

Vaat rushed them through the brush, looking something akin to a frightened animal. Were Booker to not have known that this was part of his act, he would almost believed that Vaat was fearful. Branches whipped at their faces, and while Vaat was able to duck and turn away, Booker was less fortunate. He took every strike of every overgrown bush or low hanging branch which Vaat forgot to manoeuvre him away from. He was even without his hands, them still lightly bound together. He huffed as another branch struck him across the cheek, leaving what felt to be a shallow cut. Vaat muttered a breathless apology, Booker grunting his acceptance in reply.

Finally, they made it to the clearing, and as Vaat had predicted, Rigel was already lain out for the feeding. Booker fretted to see him in such distress, quietly whimpering as Dock teased and sneered down at him. He offered comments and praise of how well he'd taste, how Dock would take his time to savor every bite of him. Dock looked to the crowd and smiled, prompting a cheer of impatient howling. Booker found it hard to look at, yet for the rest of the pack they seemed happy to enjoy the show.

Booker was thankful that these people weren't as he heard, eating what they found upon sight. Had they been, Rigel and him would both already be dead. This was a malicious act, but at least it bought them some time.

Vaat came skidding to a stop, almost tripping as he slid on the waxy surface of the dead leaves. Regaining his balance, his eyes panic stricken gaze found Dock's of cool annoyance. He roughly threw Booker aside, to the hissing of some other cannibals who he was near to landing atop of. Booker grunted, slightly winded and dazed by the toss, able to just glare over at his current partner in crime.

“Dock! Dock, the others,” Vaat gasped, looking genuinely strained, unable to find his breath. Dock gave him a moment, a look of annoyance taking his expression. Vaat panted, leaning over himself as he gasp for breath.

“Vaat, get along with it, I'm in the middle of something.” Dock snapped, hands clawing into the leaf covered ground. Booker could see nails, looking like they'd been filled down to a purposeful point, scarping at the dirt. Vaat nodded, looking behind himself a moment for added effect.

“The other pack, Dock they're coming!” That seemed to catch Dock's attention, his head peaking upwards.

“All of them?”

“The whole group.” Vaat confirmed, nodding. Dock's eyes widened only to narrow, his body tensing.

“Well now, we can't have those fuckers encroaching on our territory, _now can we?_ ” Dock announced the last few words, looking around at his cult in search of a response. They returned with raging screams and cries, some clawing at the ground or air, others rising to their feet. A sick smirk grew upon Dock's lips as he rose, the rest of his worshipers following him.

“Where are they coming from?” Dock asked, looking towards the Vaat. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, turning to run. Dock picked up his own sprint, growling like some feral dog as his following fell in line, hooting, and screeching their war cries. Before long was Booker left alone, besides a sniveling Rigel left ignored out in the middle of the clearing.

Looking towards his lover, Booker quickly dis tangled himself from the mess of ropes and ran to Rigel, pulling the knife from his pocket. He looked over him, shushing him as he sawed away at the bright, yellow plastic. To Booker's thanks, only his ankles and hands were tied, which he easily broke through. Once Rigel was able did he wrap his arms around Booker, whispering soft, almost scared thanks into his shoulder. Booker returned the gesture. How he'd missed this, holding him tight.

“It's alright, you're alright now. Come on, we have to get out of here, we don't have much time.” Booker urged, pulling Rigel to his feet and he stood. Despite his warning, Rigel seemed unable to resist himself as he pressed his lips to Booker's. Even under a limited time frame, Booker found himself melting into the man's embrace, pressing back at him. A moan left Rigel's lips, a hand coming to run down his cheek. Booker knew that they had little time for this, but his lover was sweet enough he didn't want to rush him away now that he had him back.

“Dock! Now hold on a minute, Dock I swear I heard them!” Vaat's distant yelling called, waking Booker from his moment of bliss. He tore away from Rigel, scrambling to pull himself away when the rest of them emerged from the woods. Dock, being the first to pull himself through the surrounding branches, froze at the sight before him. He looked more stunned than anything, marveled by the fact he'd been duped by his own lover, but his temper was quick to flare. His look of shock melted into rage, face twisting into what looked like near horrific aggravation. He looked much like his title; like an angry dog.

“And what do we have here?” He asked, glancing back at Vaat as he cautiously wandered into the clearing, fear clear in his gaze. “Vaat, my dear, you wouldn't have happened to be lying just now, would you?” Vaat had no time to answer, Dock pointing to Rigel and Booker, shouting. “You wouldn't have lied to me, to let these two lovebirds fly away, _would you?_ ” Dock's voice was straining, his face growling red. Vaat pouted, but gave no yes or no, instead bowing his head in shame and leaving it like that.

Dock turned back to the partners, breathing heavy. He seemed straining to keep himself contained, his nails dug into his palm. Booker watched as blood spilled down his curled fingers, his fists quivering. “You know what, Booker? I'm over you.” Dock took an unsteady step forwards, gritting his teeth. “I'm going to tear out your fucking heart, and I'm going to shove it as far up your boyfriends ass as I can get it right before I hang him with your own intestines.” Dock practically screamed, looking something close to tears as he stepped ever close.

The rest of the pack lay watching, seeming too afraid to dare get any closer. Booker gripped the knife tighter in his fist, hiding it from view best he could as he stepped in front of Rigel, shielding him from Dock. The madman tilted his head, laughing hysterically. “Always the hero, aren't you, Booker?” He bit out, tone bitter. Booker could see Vaat in the crowd, shaking in fear. For Booker, Dock or himself he could not tell.

It seemed Dock could hold back no longer. He launched himself at Booker, hands outstretched in search of skin. Rigel ran to the sidelines as Dock came barreling into Booker, a hand clawing down his cheek as the other searched for his throat. Nails dug crescents into his skin, red welling to the surface as Booker struggled to keep his balance. Dock purposely pushed them to the ground, landing atop Booker. He straddled his hips, hand at his cheek moving to run down an eye. Booker was quick enough to shut it before it was lost, wincing at the shallow cuts he left. With a hiss he tried to dig fingers into his socket, but that was where Booker drew the line.

He flung his hand up, pushing the knife into Dock's side. The cannibal howled, the others shifting in discomfort at the sound. Booker pushed him off, taking his place as the one on top. He pressed the blade to Dock's neck, the man a writhing mess of desperate squirming and gnashing teeth. With some hesitance, he pushed the blade into his throat, wincing at the short cut screech, blood bubbling up Dock's throat. He coughed, hand reaching to grab at the wound as red gushed from him. He had the energy to sit up, blood pouring past his lips as he struggled to scream his agony. With a last sad gurgle, he fell onto his side, his wriggling eventually slowing till he lay still, bleeding out onto the dirt.

Booker shuffled back, staring at his past lover's body, a wave of sickness washing over him. He looked away, promptly vomiting into the bushes. Out of stress and the sickness that any kill left him with, Booker couldn't help himself as he heaved up what little food he had been given by Vaat. Rigel had returned, setting a reassuring hand upon Booker's shoulder. He knelt next to him, keeping him silent company. Somehow, words didn't feel right just yet. Booker wiped at his mouth and nodded, allowing Rigel's help to get him standing again. He looked around them at the forest, surveying the damage.

The rest of the cult had scattered; hissing and howling at the fall of their alpha. A few had lingered, watching from the outskirts of the brush, giving themselves away by the snap of a twig or the rustle of some leaves. Some even stayed in the clearing, sitting on all fours, staring. In return, Booker watched them closely right back, but by the looks of it they didn't want the living, breathing and kicking as much as they wanted the rich meat of their dead leader. No far off they could hear the yowling and screeching of the rest of the pack. Booker figured they must be fighting over position, the strongest grappling for the title of leader.

Booker looked away from the edge of the clearing, drawn back to the situation at hand by a short tug at his sleeve. Rigel quietly pointed to Vaat, looking at Booker sadly, the larger man having crept over and taking Dock into his arms, cradling the body of his lost lover. Were Vaat with the rest of the pack, no doubt he would have won the title of ruler. Yet instead here he sat, crying to the heavens in hopes they would return his precious Dock.

Booker figured he might have better luck screaming at the ground, knowing very well that Dock's filthy soul hadn't gone skywards. He didn't dare a word like, knowing some offhand comment like that would likely cost him his life. He glanced down at the weapon, sighing. Dock's own gift had been his demise, given to Booker by Dock's own lover. It was funny almost, in a sad sort of way.

Vaat was sniveling and sobbing, running his fingers through Dock's greasy, black hair. There were words somewhere in his messy crying, but Booker could not decipher his voice as he could some others. For a man as physically powerful as Vaat, looking to be the steadiest of all the maddened people of the woods, Booker wouldn't have expected this of him. Cautiously he approached Vaat, worried of any lingering aggression he may have towards the killer of his lover. Closer, he could make out apologizes hiccuping out of the bawling, some few words of reassurance mixed with it.

The poor soul was broken, but Booker hoped he'd be able to get something out the wreckage. Vaat was grieving, and if Booker was lucky that would be all this was. Were he to be as he usually was, the man would probably turn on him and he'd be dead the moment he got close enough for Vaat to reach him.

“Hey,” Booker began, setting a hand on Vaat's shoulder. The man, tears flowing heavy down his cheeks, turned to look up at him. He looked utterly destroyed, and Booker almost felt guilty for killing Dock, if only for what he'd done to what was once a prideful man.

Vaat's eyes were red and swollen from his sobbing, his mouth quivering, short squeaks of whimpers still tumbling from his lips. His shoulders jumped with every shallow breath, and upon Booker's approach did he hug Dock a little closer, looking almost afraid that Booker was going to take the body from him.

“We're going to start moving, before the lurkers get any ideas,” Booker said, squeezing his shoulder. He was thankful that Vaat didn't seem very angry. He was heartbroken, but he held no malice. “You're a good man, Vaat, Rigel and I were wondering if you wanted to come along.” Vaat looked away, considering. He opened his mouth to speak but instead another bout of crying starting up in his chest, the wail that echoed from him making Booker silently wince.

“I, I don't- I don't know.” He mustered, clutching the body tight. “I don't want to leave him.” His voice had lowered to a whisper, his eyes softly shut. Booker gave his shoulder a pat, nodding to himself.

“I know it's hard, but it'd be better if you let go. It's not good to hold onto the past, we should move on, all of us, you included.” Booker tried again. He knew his relationship with Vaat was on thin ice, but he didn't want to let a partner like him go so soon. He could be some real help, what with his size and strength, Booker had to at least give it a try. To his luck, Vaat seemed to agree, nodding his head slowly, still looking down at the bloody body in hand.

Booker gave a small smile, through the expression didn't last longer than the notice of the bodies twitching fingers. “Vaat-” Was all he could get out before Dock sprung back to life, screeching and hurling himself at Vaat's neck. The man screamed in a mixture of pain, surprise and what might have been betrayal, a hand flying to his neck to push the man off of him. It was a lucky grab, Dock tearing through his jugular in a flurry of teeth and muffled growling. Vaat fell sputtering and choking on his own blood, red gushing from the wound to further stain the dead leaves. He fell like a tree, his head turning limply to the side, red oozing past his lips.

Dock was hissing and tearing at the wound, licking at the red, but sooner than later did he look up at Booker with wide, dead eyes. Like Cabot, part of him must still have been present, because at the sight of Booker he roared in rage, lunging like a rabid dog. Booker hadn't found his legs in time, Dock latching onto one, teeth digging deeply into his skin. He gave a short yell and came toppling to the ground, the knife thrown from his grip. Dock quickly decided he didn't want a leg as much as he did his throat, clawing his way up Booker's body. Looking over him, Dock drooled down onto Booker's shirt, mouth open and ready.

Booker could feel death holding him down, his eyes pleading to the weight above him. A smile spread across Dock's open mouth, a sick gurgle running up his throat as he leaned down and licked at Booker's neck. Were he not dead and clearly ready to feast, Booker would have almost called it sensual.

Rigel came racing, and with a swift kick to the head was Dock knocked off of his partner. He hadn't noticed that he was holding his breath until he needed air, turning his head to see a panicked Rigel shaking, breathing unsteadily, and smashing Dock's skull in under his boot. Fearful tears were beginning to well in his eyes, a half-chocked sob breaking through his lips as his attack slowed. He looked down at the bloody mess he'd created, looking ready to retch.

Dock's face was mostly gone on the left side, instead just a mess of skin and gore left by Rigel. His jaw was hanging loose, laying flat next to his head, held onto him by only a thin strip of cheek. His one remaining eye stared off into the distance, the other crushed into the shattered fragments of his skull.

Rigel looked down and found his foot soaked in blood from sole to ankle. He grimaced and stumbled back, holding himself in his arms. Even with the protest of pain from the bite in his leg, Booker forced himself to his feet and found Rigel. A touch to his shoulder had him jumping, a muffled yelp on his tongue as he swung around. Eyes filled with terror, he met Booker's of calm green, whimpering at his sight. Instinctively, Booker took him into his arms and hushed his crying, petting his hair and back in an attempt to sooth his sobbing.

“It's okay, Rigel. It's alright. You did good, you were so good,” Booker breathed, gently reassuring him. “Come on, let's get out of here, before Vaat turns too.” He reminded, looking over at the hulking man's body with unease. Rigel nodded, slowly beginning to drag himself away, his hand finding Booker's and taking it's hold. Along they left, to find their way, _hopefully_.

Booker didn't want to mention it, knowing Rigel knew. The bite burned, but he pushed it to the back of mind and kept walking. He had no time to think of the consequences, he just wanted to get out and find the road. He wanted to find shelter and rest above all. He looking out at the horizon of trees, unable to say how far they'd been dragged into the woods. Enough wandering and they'd find something; they always did.

-=+=-

Despite the weather growing ever colder, today felt the hottest out of all their travelling. The sun beat down upon them as they dragged through the highway, dry land all around them. The forests that had surrounded them and quickly disappeared, replaced by desert. The wind blew dust into the road and into their eyes, leaving them squinting, if not already due to the harsh sunlight. No longer did they fear winter, instead they longed for it. If only they had found a map, maybe they could have found somewhere better to be than here.

They'd been tempted to go back, find a different way, but never had they put words into action. Thoughts had never turned to reality, and instead of finding somewhere more habitable had they only wandered deeper into the burning abyss that was the road they walked. Their walking had gone from confident to weak, feet pulled along like dead weights. Supplies was more scarce, as was shelter. If it was any consolation, seemed like zombies were as hard to find as the basic necessities of life.

The few bodies they found had already been scavenged, or were still being scavenged by buzzards. They were little more than dried out husks of what might have one day been a healthy, happy human. Most of their supplies was already used up, most likely that being the reason they were no more then a body in the desert by the time Booker and Rigel found them.

The birds that still crowded the dry, empty bodies provided food for the two partners if they could catch them. Water was collected when and where they could find it, and savored till the last drop. At the moment, they were running low on both food and water, buzzards becoming fewer, as was any sort of sources of clean water. They were living off of what was left of their own bodies now, and it wasn't doing them much good.

Rigel had thinned out exponentially, his skin left sagging. His mouth felt eternally dry, no matter how much he drank never did the water quench his thirst. Some nights, when Booker and he lay down onto the road and curled into one and other, Rigel would reach out and run a tentative hand down Booker's roughly heaving chest, beneath coat feeling the outline of his rib cage. It was a constant reminder than he was faring no better than Rigel, them both left at the edge of their limits.

Worse so still, Booker was sick. The bite had done wonders to him, and within the short span of a mere two days had Booker progressed from the strongest of the two to the weakest. His breathing was becoming ever more labored, he was stumbling more and more every day, and he was beginning to need frequent breaks through out the day. Rigel minded not taking care of him, if only to lengthen his life span by a few hours. He knew what was to follow the sickness that brought the bite, after having watched Praecantatio slowly deteriorated over their shortened journey together, and if Rigel could prevent that from happening so quickly by letting Booker sit every other hour he would happy do it.

Booker didn't want to say anything, but he was having a hard time keeping up with Rigel, despite all the resting and exertion. His limbs felt filled with lead, the limp growing worse and more severe with every step, his brain pounding with every fall of his foot. His heart felt like it was beating slower, blood not quite being pumped to where it should go any longer. The area surrounding the bite tingled, as if it had gone numb, and Alta Dio knew he wished that were true. Instead of numbness it _burned;_ like someone had pressed a brand to his skin and it was still a fresh print.

The skin around the wound was no better looking then it felt. Thick red lines traveled up his leg, some of the largest almost looking like they were pulsing. Under a piece of shirt he'd torn from his own clothing, the wound was far nastier. The skin around the bite refused to scab over, instead rotting away even as he still lived. The infection was strong, blisters filled with pus scattering themselves around and even inside the bite. At the littlest of movement they would burst, leaving the bite covered with a thin sheen of yellowish goo.

He looked down at the torn cloth around his calf and groaned. It was bleeding again, red blossoming upon the white cloth and spreading quick. Booker paused to watch it, transfixed on the spread of crimson. It was like a rose blooming in the sunlight, except this was no flower; this was Booker's life draining out of his body and beginning to drip down his leg, having thoroughly soaked the cloth.

“R-Rigel, wait, I- I just need- just... need,” Booker's tried to say, his vision flickering like a fading candle. Before he'd could properly comprehend the situation, he'd somehow managed to end up on the ground. His eyes lazily opened again, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. He looked around in his heavy daze, trying to piece together when he'd fallen. Rigel was standing over him, looking fearful and near to tears. Booker felt pity swell in his chest and reached up, his clumsy, clammy palm finding and cupped the healthier man's cheek.

“Ha, how did I end up down here?” He asked with a breathy chuckle, half-lidded eyes straining to keep Rigel in focus. He could just make out the outline of his cheeks, that gorgeous face of his reduced to a shaking blur. Those beautiful grey eyes were all he could keep clear, looking like smokey crystals glinting in the ever present sun. Rigel placed a hand atop Booker's, holding it to his cheek. He leaned into his hand and swallowed back a whimper, shutting his eyes. He could feel the fever burning up his skin, leaving even his hands scolding.

“Can you get up?” Rigel asked in a small voice, afraid of an answer he already knew. Booker's smile fell and he gave a short look around him. He lay on his back upon the black, sun baked street; body burning in the high, bright afternoon sun. The baseball cap which he'd picked off some dead had fallen from his head, leaving his moist, sweat stained hair to the elements.

He gave it an effort, trying to pull himself up into a sitting position, groaning as pain shot through his body like daggers in his veins. They bit into him from under the skin, dragging a cry of pain from his dying lungs. He managed to push himself up onto his elbows, but even with Rigel's help he could not get any further. Despite his fight with his breaking body, he couldn't quite make it and flopped back down onto the road with a grunt. He noticed he was breathing heavy, his breaths coming out in ragged pants. His face was flushed, his skin pale and graying. He was turning, and they both knew it, even if only one could see what he looked like.

“It doesn't seem like I can,” He said finally, sounding almost astonished. He'd been strong and healthy just days before and yet now he couldn't even walk. He could remember Rigel telling him the bite had affected Praecantatio within just days, leaving him immobile after only one and a few extra hours. He'd believed him, but Praecantatio had been an old man after all, he'd figured he would have lasted longer than the three days they'd been travelling. Seemed he was wrong.

If only he'd know, he would have spent those three days closer to Rigel. He would have held him, would have kissed him knowing he'd never feel those soft lips of his again. Fuck their walking, all this marching through the sun, it had been for nothing. If he'd had the energy he might have screamed, if only to let loose this bubbling stress. He couldn't die yet, he had so much more he had to do.

He hadn't even bedded Rigel for Gods sake, hadn't gotten the chance to love the man like he'd wished. Never had the chance to here him cry his name, to feel his nails clawing down his back, to kiss him and swallow every little whimper he would have breathed. If he'd known, good God if only he'd known. He would have found a nice quiet spot for them, would have treated that man like he'd never treated any lover before him. The things he would have done to Rigel would have gained him sins of the best kind. He would have had him screaming in pleasure, unlike he figured he might have him soon, screaming in sorrow.

Rigel had moved down to the wound, carefully undoing the dripping, red bandages. Booker held back a wince as he unraveled the cloth, pain flaring up around the wound. Rigel was next to wince, setting eyes upon the deep bite mark in Booker's flesh.

It had defiantly begun to bleed; red pumping out of the teeth marks with every beat of his dying heart. It had started to swell to a new, greater size, and now that it'd been uncovered Rigel could see pus oozing out with the blood. It dripped down Booker's leg and onto the cement in heavy drops, a pool quick to begin forming. The smell was nauseating, like something of death and decay. Rigel wiped a stray tear from his eyes and sniffled, beginning to wrap the cloth back around the wound.

“Rigel,” Booker tried weakly, his lover shaking his head without an answer. He was in no mood to talk, Booker could tell, but damn that man if he would ignore him.

“Rigel?” He tried again, still to no answer.

“ _Rigel_ , please,” Finally, that gained his attention, the younger man looking up from his hands, fingers clutching the ends of the cloth tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Those ashen eyes were wet and glossy with tears, Booker feeling a pang of pain swell in his chest. He wanted to say it was Rigel's expression which caused it, but deep down he knew it was the infection latching onto the only thing keeping him together.

“Please, don't bother, my time had come,” Booker whispered gravely, shutting his eyes and letting a stray tear of his own slowly roll down his skin.

Those words they'd both been dreading. To Booker, it hurt, both because he knew he was going to die, and because his lungs had begun to burn, turning speech into a painful chore. He felt a fire ranging inside of him, slowly turning his organs to ash. He wondered absently if his next breath would bring a flutter of grey flakes soaring from him into the air.

Opening his eyes, he could see in Rigel's own that the crystals he loved so dear had begun to waver in his vision, and that Rigel had flinched as if struck.

“Don't you dare say that. Booker, don't you even _fucking_ dare.” Rigel yelled, bottom lip quivering. “You'll be fine. I'll help you up, carry you if I have to, you'll be-” Rigel was cut off by a sob, the sound like shattering glass. He knew how desperate it sounded, but he also knew just how desperate he really was to keep this man with him till they could hold each other without fear of the dead eating their flesh.

He was shaking his head, trying to deny the reality which he dread. He'd finally found a man he'd loved and loved with all his heart, as short a time that he'd had with him. He knew he loved him and he didn't want to lose that love, not yet. Alta Dio have mercy on them both, he couldn't lose this one true happiness in his life, not yet dear God, he prayed that it wouldn't happen to him just yet.

After everything they'd been through, all the adventure and peril they'd faced and conquered together, Booker couldn't just die like this. Life wasn't allowed to be this unfair, not after everything it'd already thrown at them. From Cabot to Dock, reluctant partnership to love, they'd never wavered in their ever changing journey to find shelter and health and good fortune. They could not be forced apart by this disease, they couldn't be killed by the very thing they'd tried so hard to escape. Fate shouldn't have been allowed to be this unforgiving.

“Rigel, listen,” Booker had to pause, a rough cough breaking his words. “L-listen, I'm not going to last too much longer, I know that, you know that, but God I don't want to be one of them,” He started hacking again, uncontrollably, the sound deafening against the silence of the road. Blood came bubbling up his throat and he turned his head and spat it out next to him, his body starting to shake. His tongue tasted like bile and copper, and he wheezed in pain.

“I need you to something for me, and I know it'll be hard for you but I just need this one last thing,” Booker could feel his throat tighten, his words sounding more like weak sobbing. Despite his body growing numb yet aflame with pain, he could feel the tears streaking down his cheeks, leaving rivers of fire scorching down his cheeks. Rigel didn't need to be told, but he waited for the request anyways.

“Please, if I am going to die I want it to be you to kill me, not this fucking disease. I need you to take the gun, one shot to the head, that's all it takes, you just need to pull the trigger.” Rigel couldn't help himself as he sobbed, crying freely. One day before he would never have wanted to seem so weak in front of his partner, but that was once before he'd felt this broken. Before he'd known he was going to lose his everything all over _again_.

Despite it all, he dragged a hand to Booker's side, limp fingers lingering along his body. He felt the handle of the handgun, reluctantly pulling it free from his dying lover's belt. It felt unfamiliar in his hands, too heavy for his grip, but he knew it would serve him well when Booker was gone. He would need it without Booker protecting him any longer.

“Good boy, that's it, now, just take your aim, and fire. Finish me off.” Booker's breathing was labored, his lungs like they were full of dirt. He could no longer feel his fingers, nor could he find his toes. Both were warm, and tingling, but he could not dictate what they did any longer. He could feel this feeling creeping up his arms and legs, slowly but surly making its way to his heart. He almost felt like he was floating. Whether he was floating to heaven or hell he could not tell.

He guessed this was how the infection worked, slowly, then all at once.

“ _Like falling in love...”_ He mused softly, mostly inaudibly to Rigel's ears. His lover heard nothing more then a dying mans mumbling. The muffle of words sent another strike to his heart. He hated seeing Booker this weak, after knowing how strong he had been just days before.

He held the gun up, looking through tears at his long time partner. His short time love. He gave a chocked sob and put his finger to the trigger, just as Booker had showed him one night that seemed so long ago now. How those days felt like dreams, like the best time of his life. Even with all the death and the loss, he had always had Booker by his side. Until now, he could always rely on Booker.

Booker's glazed eyes watched him without truly seeing. Everything was a mess to him, the world nothing but a clutter of colors and sounds. The pain had gone away, to Booker's relief, and been replaced by a feeling like he was like he was sitting in a cloud. He tried to move his fingers and grasp at the fluffy sensation, but he couldn't find his hands. He wasn't even sure he had hands anymore.

He looked up and could just make out Rigel, giving a dopey smile.

“ _Rigel, you know, I love-_ ” before he could finish, a gunshot rang in the streets and the world sparked into a brief stab of pain that if he'd had the energy would have left him screaming.

And then it all went black. Everything faded, like he'd been cast into a deep sleep. No more pain, no more struggle, just a nice, long, well deserved rest. For once since the day the dead had come crashing through his door, since he'd struggled his way through this life, since he'd met and loved Rigel to the fullest extent one could manage in a world like the one he'd been cast into, Booker felt truly at peace.

 


End file.
